The ocean wind whipped my hair around and around, making me feel much better about the fact that I hadn’t bothered to brush it before we left. I breathed in the sharp salt air and immediately felt more alive. I knew there were so many other beautiful places to live—lakes and mountains and deserts and even the urban patchwork of a city. But for me, there was no more magical place in the world than a little beach town.

“Look,” I said.

At the top of the boardwalk, a wood and wire beach fence meandered, protecting the graceful sand dunes from footsteps. Midway along the fence, a signpost sprouted up from the ground. The sign that had once been attached to it was long gone, maybe washed out to sea in a hurricane.

Hanging from the top of the sign post was a Christmas wreath. The base of the wreath was made out of branches. Leathery green leaves were arranged on top of the branches. A circle of cranberry-colored berries topped the green leaves. Three dried starfish dangled in the open-air center of the wreath, the distant blue of the ocean behind them making them pop. A big rawhide dog bone with a red bow decorated one side of the wreath, and tiny plastic-wrapped candy canes hung here and there.

I reached into my pocket, took out a handful of Horatio’s dog treats, tucked three of them into the wreath.

Horatio let out a polite whine.

“I saved you plenty, honey.” I threw a treat up in the air for him. Horatio caught it before it hit the sand.

We stepped over the band of dried seaweed and assorted stones and sea glass and shells and foam and feathers and tiny carcasses and driftwood and too many pieces of plastic and who knows what else. This strip was actually called the wrack line, but everybody I knew called it the high tide line.

The three of us worked our way down to the packed wet sand and began walking the length of the beach. John let Horatio stretch his retractable leash as far as it would go. Horatio dashed and dipped, stopping occasionally to dig in the sand.

Dogs weren’t allowed to set paw on Marshbury beaches between 9 A.M. and 6 P.M. from the Friday before Memorial Day through the Monday of Labor Day weekend. But after Labor Day, canines ruled the Marshbury beaches.

Technically the dogs were supposed to be attached at all times to leashes held by the humans who accompanied them. But by this time of year, owners often let the rules slide long enough for their dogs to enjoy a quick burst of delicious freedom.

We passed a pair of burly Newfoundlands swimming in the frigid water, their owners high and dry on the sand.

“It’s not fair to Horatio,” John said. “If he has to follow the rules, why shouldn’t they?”