At last. You’ve reached the bridge. Behind you, miles of land and responsibility. Ahead of you, a ribbon of sand sandwiched in blue, afternoon naps, and ice cream. You roll down the windows, and a surge of thick, briny air chases out the stale A/C. You breathe deep. Ahh. At last, your lungs say. You inhale again. You smell fish and salt and tar. You breathe out. Your shoulders drop. Your neck and jaw release tension you didn’t realize was there.

The steady hum of tires on asphalt that’s been your soundtrack for miles shifts a half-octave higher, and the tires thump out a new rhythm as your vehicle begins to climb the bridge. G’dunk, g’dunk, g’dunk. Above, the kee-aw of a gull. Below, a boat putters in the marsh frothing white behind it. The skiff’s slow pace fills you with longing for the lazy days to come.

As you crest the bridge, familiar sights come into view. The water tower! The seafood shack! And over there, just beyond the last row of roofs, that eternal expanse of blue that makes you feel small and insignificant and glad to feel that way. You can see the entire island from up here — all yours for the weekend or the week or however long you’re lucky enough to stay.

The time change kicks in. “Beach time” is not just slower than normal time. It’s different. Hazier. Stretchier. Softer. Deadlines, begone! Schedule, what’s that? Punctuality, not here. G’dunk, g’dunk, g’dunk. Each beat of the tires shaves the rope fibers that tether you to timetables. You feel an urge to hurl your phone out the window and watch it disappear into the water below.

Nostalgia swells inside you. Anticipation makes you giddy. So many traditions and memories are tied to this place. All your favorite foods, spots, and activities have been moored here, waiting for your return. Memories flood your body.

Your fingers itch to feel the smooth ridges of an oyster shell, the heft of a bocce ball. You can practically feel your toes flicking at gritty sand. Your ears thrumming with the churn of the sea. Your eyes squinting against the glitter on the water. Already, your mouth salivates for yeasty doughnuts, salty French fries, flaky white fish encrusted in crispy batter. You shiver, remembering how the evening breeze feels on sun-kissed shoulders. Like the tide, you’ve come back.

There are plenty of places in the world where you don’t need to cross a bridge to get to the beach. Places where you simply drive to the end of a road, park your car, and bam: There’s the ocean right in front of you. It’s still a beach, still beautiful, still relaxing — and actually, more convenient and accessible. But reality is just there, lurking over your shoulder. In a blink, you could be back in your car, back to real life.

Not so when there’s a bridge to cross. Once you’re on the island side, going back over the bridge is a conscious decision. Yes, groceries and gas might be cheaper over there. And there may be more restaurant choices. But do you really want to go back over the bridge? Leave the island? Break the spell? No. No, you definitely do not.

You’ll stay on this side, at Sunset or Holden or Topsail. At Kure or Wrightsville. At Ocean Isle, Emerald Isle, or somewhere along Bodie Island — whichever beach is your beach. You’ll stay where time flexes and chores feel optional. Where everything is flavored with salt and sunshine. Where a nap takes priority over — well, pretty much anything. You’ll cross the bridge and linger where this summer’s memories are waiting.