We Did a Thing

 January 29 - February 1, 2026

We woke up at Padre Island National Seashore to the soothing sound of ocean waves and zero responsibility… for about seven minutes. Then we remembered we still have jobs. If you have to work, though, working on the beach is elite-tier adulting. Laptop open, salty breeze, occasional pelican dive-bombing the water. But first we took a sunrise walk on the beach because the work day hadn't even started back on the Pacific Coast where our clients assume we are sitting. 

That afternoon, we biked to the visitor center and around the park. There’s an old ranch area, because apparently every National Seashore used to be a ranch until someone said, “Hey maybe let’s not let cows trample the fragile ecosystem,” and the government agreed.

We also saw one of only six high-saline lagoons in the world. Very exclusive. Very salty. My kind of water feature.

And here’s something alarming: I think I’m becoming a bird person.

Not “own parrots and teach them to swear” bird person. More like “Ooooh what IS that?” bird person. It’s weirdly fun trying to identify them. Some are actually stunning. If this is how it starts, someone intervene before I own binoculars with a neck strap. Oh wait...too late. That $5 pair of binoculars that George bought at the estate sale in Sedona, Arizona work great! 

We broke camp the next morning in a frigid wind chill and headed toward even colder weather in Austin to see George’s college friend Walter and his wife Andrea. 

We prefer back roads, even if it takes a little longer to get where we are going because we enjoy “local flavor.” Sometimes that flavor is regret. For example, to get to Austin, we thought we'd finish seeing the barrier islands with a drive through Mustang Island State Park, then catch the Port Aransas ferry to head to Austin. The drive would only be slightly longer. Unless there was a low tide restriction on the ferry that was not discussed anywhere on its website. No campers. No RVs. Just rejection.

So we backtracked like pioneers who chose poorly.

Port Aransas, however, was adorable. All bright pastels like a beach town decided to cosplay as Easter. I tried to look up if there was a city ordinance requiring “Aggressively Cheerful Pastel Color Schemes,” but nope. Just commitment.

In Austin, George wanted to “just look” at the new NuCamp Haven. Ladies, if your man says he just wants to look at a camper (or a car, or a motorcycle, or a house, or a...), he does not.

The Haven is slightly bigger than ours. Same brand we love. We had actually seen part of it during our factory tour—where we signed NDAs and surrendered our phones like we were entering a top-secret government facility instead of a camper factory.

We made a pros and cons list like mature adults.

Then we had dinner with Walter and Andrea. Walter made fish so good I ate it willingly, and I do not like fish. That’s basically a miracle. We played Rummikub, caught up on each other's kids (though our kid rehash took more than twice as long since we have 7 and they have 2), shared pictures, stayed in their guest room, and felt like civilized humans.

We said goodbye and drove straight to the RV store. Guess who bought the Haven? Scott Frewing, wherever you are, congratulations. You win the bet.

Immediately, we ran into a few glitches. The salesman said it was four-season with tank heaters. It was not.

So we split the cost with the dealer to have tank heaters installed. And then we added an extra battery for good measure to make sure that when we leaned into winter instead of fleeing it, we had adequate power to run those tank heaters. 

We had to empty our old camper completely before trading it in. I am still in awe at how much stuff came out of that tiny space. It was like a clown car, but make it sentimental. We loved that little camper. Six solid years. She deserved a Viking funeral, honestly.

Installing tank heaters took all day. Paperwork took forever. By the time everything was done, it was well past closing and the staff was politely staring at us like, “Please. Go.”

So we shoved all our stuff back into the new camper in pure hodgepodge chaos and drove two hours toward our next stop: Houston.

Our first glamorous overnight destination with the new trailer? A Walmart parking lot. Truly living the influencer lifestyle over here. But honestly, Walmart parking lots aren’t terrible. They’re level-ish, they’re free, and you fit right in when you run into the store to buy something in pajama pants. The only time we ever regretted a Walmart stay was six years ago in Montrose, Colorado, when landscapers decided 1:00 a.m. was the perfect time to mow the lawn we were parked next to. Nothing like waking up in a panic thinking you’re being chased by an angry chainsaw.

So now we do a quick pre-park inspection: no grass nearby, no sprinklers aimed at the camper, and ideally no teenagers practicing trumpet nearby. We’ve learned. We’ve grown. We’re basically Walmart parking lot experts at this point. Ironically, as I write this, there is a chainsaw running next door as they work to demolish a house. 

It was after midnight when we realized the water pump had “issues.” But hey—the tank heaters worked great. Which was good. Because it was 26 degrees. No more chasing warm weather. We can finally be all season RV people.

The next morning, I took a lovely cold shower while George operated the water pump like a NASA launch technician. He’d flip it on to build pressure. Then flip it off when it started leaking outside.

Did I mention it was cold?

We headed into Houston for brunch with Walter’s parents—also work colleagues—who live in a stunning high-rise downtown. The kind of place you see in movies with a doorman and valet parking. Only in the movies, the elevator opens directly into the penthouse like you’re Beyoncé arriving at brunch. Here, you had to step out and walk down a beautiful hallway past the five other penthouse doors on the same floor, like some sort of… regular millionaire. We pretended we did not just come from a Walmart parking lot. 

On the way to Houston, we nearly died.

A semi in front of us suddenly whipped into the left lane, revealing a broken-down car directly in our path. George slammed the brakes (which locked), tried to swerve left (pickup truck there), swerved back, and somehow—miraculously—the pickup gunned it so we could change lanes at the last second.

The young guy with the broken-down car just stood there watching like, “Well. This is how it ends.”

Thirty seconds later we ran over a giant chunk of metal we couldn’t avoid.

George stayed calm through it all. An absolute champ. I, meanwhile, aged three years. Between the cold shower and near-death experience, I was fully awake on 4.5 hours of sleep.

Brunch was lovely. Gorgeous panoramic views. Church online afterward—thank you time zones for our 3:30 Washington start time.

Then we reviewed our new rolling financial decision:

The Pros:

1. We don’t have to crawl over each other to get into bed. (Downside: We don’t have to crawl over each other to get into bed.)

2. Separate shower and toilet. GAME CHANGER. No more wet floors or strategic bladder timing.

3. Solar panel charges like a bull in the ring.

4. Backup camera. I am officially retired from “Yell and Flail” parking duty. 

5. Tank indicators actually work. No more playing “Is That Smell a Warning?”

6. We can keep clothes inside. No more freezing our tushes off running to the car every morning.

Downsides? Scott Frewing wins. There is more for me to clean. And that one little no hot water and questionable water pressure issue. 

We slept in another Walmart parking lot that night, the best we can do in the big ol' city.