That week, I went to Cannon Beach, Pips NYT Oregon, and half of the trip was stuck because of one stupid little thing: I left a single flip-flop on the rocks while I chased a raven that had nabbed my sandwich. The wind was cold enough to sting my ears, but the sky kept changing bright, then foggy, then sun like a coin, so I did not mind. I spent a morning crouched at the tide pools watching tiny anemones curl like flowers, and a kid two rocks over convinced his dad that Haystack Rock was actually a sleeping giant. At dusk, a stranger offered me half of his thermos of coffee, and we traded travel tips until the light went thin; small, ordinary kindnesses like that felt huge. I came home with sand in every pocket, one damp flip-flop, and a sleepy need to go back.