It's almost perfect.

It's almost perfect.

The table that I'm sitting at, while I tap away on my laptop, is on the side of a cliff. As much as I focus on the screen, the sound of the waves is a regular, constant reminder of where I am. The waves are in time with the sounds of The Little Travelers, crash, squeal, crash, squeal.

Every now and then I stand up and walk over to the edge to see them. Jeans rolled up, shoes left by the bottom of the stairs. I will find the remnants of the sand and the sea shells in the bottom of the washing machine tomorrow.

The rules are when the sun hits the sea its time to come back up. They wont. I will stand waving with both arms above my head until one of them will look up, smile, nod and tell the others “its time!”

Behind me is my favourite FAVOURITE restaurant. The restaurant that G and I went to eleven years ago, the day before The First Little Traveler was born. “It'd be great to have a place down here” said G. I wasn't a beach person. I didn't get it.

Three streets away is our little beach house. The house we waited eleven years and seven countries to have. The house with the amazing neighbours who have ended up meaning more to the Little Travelers than we could have ever hoped for. Remember that incredibly special Aunt or Uncle you had as a child? That's them. 

It's almost perfect.

As I type. G is in his office looking at a different sea, a Gulf, an Arabian Gulf. He is thousands of miles away. It's hot and the humidity is so overpowering that walking outside feels like an outdoor sauna. “It's like walking through soup” a girlfriend said the other day. I've watched those with glasses walk out of an air-conditioned building only to be blinded by the fog on their lenses.  It's like opening the dishwasher seconds after its finished its cycle. Whoosh. 

There's a chill in the air as we make our way back to the beach house. Little feet are covered in sand with goose bumps running up legs. The Fourth Little Traveler is dragging the cricket bat along the road as we walk. "It's cold when the sun goes down" he says, "How many sleeps until Dad gets here?"

"Thirteen more sleeps" I say.

Then, it will be perfect.