Davenport Beach, it’s not some tourist trap with overpriced fish tacos and selfie-stick assholes. It’s raw. Wild. The kind of place where a woman and her Portuguese Water Dog can just be.
Lindsey and Sharka. That’s it. That’s the whole story. A dog built for water doing what dogs built for water should do. Running. Swimming. Losing their goddamn minds with the simple ecstasy of being alive on a Tuesday morning.
No social media strategy. No manufactured moment. Just the Pacific doing its thing, cold and infinite, and a creature who understands that joy doesn’t require explanation. Sharka’s not thinking about meaning or purpose. She’s just in it.
And Lindsey? She gets it. She brought Sharka here not to perform happiness, but to live it.
That’s the whole game right there. The sea, the dog, the moment.
Pure. Uncut. Joy.
So fine was the morning except for a streak of wind here and there that the sea and sky looked all one fabric, as if sails were stuck high up in the sky, or the clouds had dropped down into the sea.
Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse