I am picking up shells larger than my husband’s fist, walking along a stretch of sand for miles without a single person. What’s even more shocking is that we are in Florida. On a tiny barrier island called St. George, is a state park of the same name, pristine, crystal, shimmering, mountain sized dunes and zero people. We are in a tiny campground that holds fifty RV’s, plus a couple of park rangers…and that’s it. It’s more remote than you could ever imagine. Starfish by the dozens are washed up on the beach; huge shells of many varieties, large enough to use as a candy dish. The nearby towns of Port St. Joe and Mexico Beach are charming, under-populated, friendly, clean and just plain amazing. In all the years we have traveled to Florida, both with and without an RV, this part of the panhandle escaped us…until now. Some friends we met in South Texas recommended the area for both the beaches and the baked oysters. Both are timeless. Several strenuous hikes are right from the campsite, one to the Eastern Slough, a gorgeous marsh, left me breathless. My husband and I got caught in a downpour today (five miles from the RV on bicycles) froze, cussed, laughed and shivered our way back home. We sang as many songs about rain as we could think of, only remembering the first line of all of them. It was one of those perfect days. A day in which you love your spouse so much that you can’t wipe the smile off your face if you tried. A day that reminds you that puddles are fun, storms are beautiful, being soaked is silly, and life is perfect.