Caught up with the Beavers on Friday, this place is a warm slice of sloppy pie, and it sits over the ocean with regal jurisdiction. Note to parents: we're good for $20 a month if such a zip code falls under eventual jurisdiction.
Full house, Josh and Mary Margaret arrived same time I did, first time baby swaddlers those two, hijinks immediately ensued. The pictures do it better justice than me, so I'll keep the running commentary brief.
A couple before we rogered off to Chucktown, this taken at the beerhall with our one armed bandit:
The joy of an airplane outfit:
My beach babies:
Josh makes initial contact:
View from the poop deck:
Those are my white, pirate pumps:
Mary Margaret and the Beav, night one, dish duty:
Shade station on the 28 mile mark - this was a ten minute touch down, immediate yoohoo.
Project aborted, finds solace in thumb (first).
Schecky Fatfoot with his miss dirty fingernails.....I continue to look ten. She digs naked.
Uncle Hunter!
Clear who's bringing down the handsome quotient. Apologies for the Camp Lejune.
Neighbors, hurricane house.
Grandpa M.O. and Baby Jane, on dawn patrol:
The competition, Pope Kennedy, charting a 10.5.
Naps are for closers.
MM, fearless, efficient, Tom Petty fan.
The engineer of all this genius, signaling cocktail hour.
No caption can capture this Griswald moment:
Kris Kristofferson, desert.
Vanity Fair, without the adverts:
More in the morning I guess. Got ghost crabs to rally.
No comments:
Post a Comment