A Bunk Bed by the Beach

by Kiley Parrish

There was always a distinct smell when you walked into our beach condo. A mix of lemony cleaning spray and lingering salt air, with flecks of sand still clinging to the floor, exactly how it should be. The long hallway led you straight to the ocean, the view growing bigger with every step, joined by the sound of waves crashing and birds chirping.

To the left of the hallway was our nook. In it were two bunk beds tucked into the wall where my sisters and I crashed every summer, from ages three until well into college. The older we got, the more we complained about “sleeping in the hallway,” but I’d give anything to climb back up to the top bunk, just two feet from the ceiling, legs sunburnt, hair still damp with saltwater.

The hallway opened into the kitchen, where we'd drop our brown plastic Publix bags filled with sandwich fixings, too much ice cream, and enough snacks to last through late-night movies. My sisters would swing open the balcony door to let in the breeze, Dad would flip on whatever game he missed on the drive in, and Mom and I would unpack groceries, falling into the same rhythm we did every year. Everything felt exactly like home.

Condo 606 was our family’s beach place. I like to say I grew up there, even though we only visited for one week a year. But some places don’t need much time to root themselves into you. Santa Rosa Beach's soft sand, sleepy streets, and sea air hold the backdrop to most of my core memories.

The waterpark where my sisters and I graduated from baby pools to big kid slides. Late-night mini-golf tournaments after scoops of ice cream. Claiming our spots under the navy blue umbrellas to read with Mom. Sneaking into the hot tub after hours because five hours in the ocean somehow still weren’t enough.

Every year was more or less the same. Same condo. Same beach chairs. Same sleepy town. And somehow, that repetition became sacred. There’s something powerful in doing the same things over and over again, but with people you love, and watching how time changes you while the place stays still.

Even now, I can close my eyes and picture it all: the drive to the closest Publix, the faded sign of the ice cream shop, the mall where we spent too many hours trying on clothes we didn’t need. Over two decades, the town barely changed. But I did. I grew up. I learned how precious it is to return to the same place year after year and feel like nothing has changed, even when everything else has. We eventually sold the condo, as families do, when life started pulling us in new directions. But the version of me that lived in that bunkbed hallway, sunburnt, sandy, and completely at peace, is still in there somewhere. Condo 606 may belong to someone else now, but it will always feel like my second home.