The Beaches We Return To
The Beaches
We Return To
The first thing I remember about hermit crabs is that they are always looking for a better shell.
As a child, I thought that was such a funny and oddly human thing - this tiny creature carrying its home around, pausing now and then to test whether something new might fit just a little better. It seemed both practical and deeply sentimental, as if even a hermit crab understood that home is not just where you live, but what you carry with you.
When I was growing up, my grandmother was always bringing home little treasures from the shore. She especially loved finding coral-colored carnelian pebbles at Rodeo Beach, shaped and polished by the ocean over time. She was a jeweler, and I always loved that about her. She spent her life working with beautiful things. She knew how to recognize beauty in what others might overlook: the color, the shape, the texture, the tiny imperfections that gave something its character.
Today, I can return to that same beach and still find those same little treasures she loved - reminders that the places we return to become part of our story.
It’s been a beautiful stretch of summer weather here in the East Bay, which means many of us have started making our way toward the water.
There’s something about a beach day that feels almost instinctive. The minute the temperatures climb, we find ourselves packing towels, filling water bottles, digging through closets for swimsuits, and heading toward the coast.
And somehow, no matter how old we get, we all become collectors. A seashell here. A smooth stone there. A piece of driftwood that is somehow too beautiful to leave behind. And, if you have children, usually a tote bag full of damp towels, sandy snacks, and somehow only one flip-flop by the time you make it home.
Maybe we’re all a little like hermit crabs, carrying our favorite things with us until we find the shell, or the home, that feels just right.
One of the great gifts of living in the East Bay is how many different versions of a beach day are within reach.
There are quiet mornings at Lake Anza in Berkeley, where the water feels tucked away from the rest of the world. There are afternoons at Baker Beach watching the Golden Gate Bridge disappear into the fog. Long summer evenings stretch on at Stinson Beach, when no one wants to pack up and leave, even as the winding drive home waits. At Alameda Beach, children race through gentle waves with the San Francisco skyline stretched across the horizon. And that's only the beginning.
The beaches we return to become part of our family stories.
When people talk about real estate, we often talk about location. The neighborhood. The schools. The architecture. The commute.The price per square foot. And all of those things matter. But those are features, not fit. They're data points on a listing, metrics you can compare on a spreadsheet. What they don't tell you is whether this home will actually support the life you want to live.
Can you come home with wet towels and sandy feet and still feel at peace? Does the neighborhood rhythm match yours - quiet mornings or lively evenings? Will you actually cook in that chef's kitchen, unwind in the sauna or hot tub after work, or will those dream features become beautiful backdrops while takeout containers pile up? Is the backyard made for the life you imagine - summer dinners around a fire pit, kids running barefoot, maybe even room for a pool or ADU - or will you spend every weekend wishing you had more space... or less to maintain?
The real question isn't whether a house checks boxes. It’s whether it belongs to the life you’re building.
Like the hermit crab testing shells, you need to know what you're actually looking for. If you're a quiet-morning person, don't buy the house on the street where everyone gathers for block parties. If you're someone who comes alive in community, don't isolate yourself three miles from town in the name of square footage. The hermit crab doesn't pick the prettiest shell or the biggest shell. It picks the one that works for the life it needs.
It’s the house where the floor plan supports the life happening inside it. Where beach towels pile up by the back door. Where kids rinse off with the hose and sandy feet don’t feel like a problem to solve. Where neighbors wave as you head out with a cooler and a folding chair. It’s the place that makes room for the mess and the memory.
Those are the things that make people fall in love with a place.
A home is not just the walls around us. It’s everything that surrounds them - the landscapes we explore, the traditions we create, and the memories we collect along the way.
Maybe that’s why we bring home those little treasures from the shore. They remind us that the places we love become part of us.
So before you start touring properties, ask yourself: What do I actually need to feel at home? Then find the shell that fits that life.
And if you happen to see me looking down while walking along the coast this summer, I’m probably just searching for the next little treasure, or the flip-flop that disappeared five minutes ago.
-Lindsay
The Scott Team