Down along the coast lies a White House. You won’t find the first family of the United States here, but rather seven average families simply in search of an escape. Four hours of driving, cramped in 6 SUV’s, packed to the brim with flip flops and bathing suits, Sunny D’s, boogie boards, passports, and a longing to finally smell saltwater and seafood walking through the fish market once again. For the adults, it was worth not only every penny spent, but also the extra hours that will have to be spent sitting in small cubicles with the smell of stale coffee and printer paper floating around the floor. For the children, it seems as if time slows down over the last minutes leading up to the teacher calling out behind them the sweet, magic words, “Have a good spring break everyone, stay safe!” Seven families year after year join together and become one whole tribe, yet not even one family suspected the yearly getaway to ever become only a memory.

       Two floors and a casita in the corner at the top of the house was host to 7 families over the course of every other year for six years. Any person who’s spent a spring break down at the White House would say with confidence they know the house like the back of their hand, and need only to feel the ground, or smell the air, and they would know where they were. A staircase that was never clean, coated in saltwater, sandy footprints, beach chairs stacked at the top, and collections of shells scattered about the bottom steps always finding their next victim was an adult stumbling up the staircase only to find them stepping over shells as if trying to get around Lego pieces scattered across the game room back home. The staircase is probably the most traveled place in the White House, it leads the families to their true escape. Stepping down from the last wooden step into the engulfing fine-grained sand, sinking deep into its reaches was like letting out a breath held on to for a fraction of a second too long. The White House did have a few neighboring homes, yet it was rare for the seven families to meet another tribe that escaped from their reality too. 

 It left the people in the White House alone, and they had the whole wide world to themselves for five days. Now although the people in the White House walk the length of the beach to as wide as they can see, no one has walked the beach as long as the people with mangos or bracelets or bandanas for sale in their carts and backpacks have walked. The merchants that told the families all the secrets they need to know during their first trip still stop by the easy-ups and beach umbrellas to say hello. When the adults would cave, one lucky merchant would sell all of his bracelets or all of his bandanas and draw henna tattoos everyone knew would wash off in the ocean after ten minutes and become maybe the happiest person alive. 

       The typical day in Rocky Point for the 7 families began with early birds waking up at 7 am, brewing a pot of coffee that wakes up all the coffee drinkers who always love a good sleep in, and meandering down to the beach and walking along the border of dry sand and wet sand, slowly venturing out into the tide pools full of hermit crabs that the kids pick names they see most fit each little shell. The adults are sensible and wear their trusty flip flops they gathered from the bottom steps to walk upon the rocky reefs, while the children hop from one mound of sand to the next, and leaving with only a few stubbed toes. Then, as the rest of the house is just only starting to stir, the beach-goers walk back up the almond shaped double staircase and into the kitchen, taking in the thick scent of biscuits and gravy. Slipping on swimsuits, grabbing beach towels, sunglasses, sun screen, tan lotion, and some cash to spare for a Pina Colada. The chairs set up in an arc, the coolers and speakers go in the middle. Towels are laid just a yard to the right of the chairs, the warm sand and sunshine melting over everyone for the day. Nobody stays on the beach all day though, when it’s nearly impossible to not end up in the kitchen at least 3 times. Countless trips up and down the beach don’t really matter, since it feels like an eternity that the 7 families stay there for. 

       The end of the trip is bittersweet. The tribe of families knows any better to stay longer, for if any more days were spent lying on the beach sunburning yesterday’s sunburn, someone was bound to start pulling their own hair out. Even though the one last trip down to the beach had no swimsuits, no flip-flops, no sunscreen, no beach chairs, no sand toys, and no ice chest filled to the brim with drinks, smelling the salt water and the warm bean burritos a lady sold us every morning was enough. It was always windy the last day of spring break, and as the families woke up and packed their suitcases and loaded their cars, it was almost too perfect. It’s a tradition almost; the beach says goodbye to the families and lets them know they won’t miss out on the best days. It’d be okay to go home, to get in the car and come back to the cubicles and history classes. And this time, after 6 years, after the oldest kids went from Justice swimsuits to driving cars, after families split ways and drove each other crazy— but not in the good way— these seven families stood on the beach one last time. The sand in the suitcases and the camera rolls’ full of pictures that no one really remembers taking are what’s left of the Rocky Point Spring Break trip, and the empty White House, now that all of its guests are out of office.