Quintana Beach County Park, TX

Quintana Beach is my current favorite beach in Texas. It's less crowded than Galveston, more remote, a little further from the rivers that dump into Galveston Bay.

I'm not saying it's a great beach, but by Texas standards? It's not bad. I still have no desire to go in the water, but it's a lovely place to watch the sun go up and down, to walk, to watch birds, to escape the closed-in feeling of suburban Houston and its surrounding subtropical forests.

Here's their site: Quintana Beach County Park

2024.06.07

I packed up the camper and the dog and headed down to the beach for a three-day weekend.

It's hot. Summer is well and truly upon us, but while the city sits in the mid 90s, the beach is about 10 degrees cooler. With the sun beating down on you, it's a misery: humidity that sticks to your skin, sweat that won't evaporate, that soaks through your clothes, that runs down your face and your body. But if you find a patch of shade, and an unobstructed breeze, and just sit... it's actually pretty comfortable. The beauty of going to the beach while the inland areas swelter under a high pressure system is wind. The heat rises over land, pulling in the cooler air from the Gulf, and you can feel it alternating hot and cool against your skin as the strength of the breeze changes - hotter when it slows, cooler when it gusts.

The wind also keeps the mosquitoes at bay. Not entirely gone, but dramatically reduced, as long as you stay in the clear air. If you stand behind the shelter of a building, walk close to the shrubs growing on the dunes or, worse yet, brave the paths kept cleared between them, up to the old gun emplacement, the mosquitoes will flock to you; your only hope is to hurry, hurry, up and up, until you break clear of their shelter and stand again explosed to the wind.

I was last here in July of 2020. I remember that, because it was the 4th of July weekend and I had fled the city, fled the fireworks which terrified my dog. It was there, at the beach, that I decided I simply could not bear to remain in that neighborhood, and started the process of seeking a quieter space so that I could work and sleep uninterrupted.

Since that last visit, the place was hit by a hurricane, and signs of the damage remain. The offices have been more or less permanently relocated. The guest cabins, sitting above the dunes, have been replaced. Most of the boardwalks have been closed - not just roped off, but solid rails installed to block them off. My favorite bench, shaded with thatch and right on the beach, is gone. The buildings that were damaged still bear visible scars - damaged siding, rust, fading paint. But the beach itself is just as I remember it, and the campground. They haven't torn down the buildings and the boardwalks, so I do hope that, in time, they will be repaired.

On Friday evening, we took a short walk out to the beach. Well, up to the gun, then back down, then over to the old office and out to the beach; that's how I know the boardwalk that used to connect the gun's hill to the guest cabins was closed. We watched the sunset turn the sky to soft colors, and listened to the waves.

On Saturday morning, we walked to the beach, then slowly all the way down to the jetty. We watched people fishing in the surf, and off the jetty. We watched ships come in and speedboats go out, and tugboats going to and fro with great purpose but no obvious pattern. I sat on a large tree trunk, washed smooth by the ocean, and just breathed the ocean air and listened to the waves. We walked back to the access path, passing another dog, a pair of beachcombers, and lots of birds.

By the time the sun was properly up, my back was sore and I was starting to overheat, so we went back to our site. I pulled a chair into the shade next to the camper; I read and Maisie watched the neighbors go about their morning routines, growling if any dared walk past our site.

The shade disappeared and drove me indoors. I cooked breakfast, and showered, and we took a nap and waited for the sun to move. When the shade returned, I moved my chair to the other side of the camper; I sat in the shade and the wind, and I read a book and listened to the music and yelling and laughter coming from the beach. I watched the carloads of people unload, dragging wagons and bags and towels and children toward the beach; then, as the afternoon turned to evening, I watched the cars fill up again and leave, the parking lot slowly emptying, the music and laughter fading. I put on my walking shoes and we returned to the beach, watching the last few groups of children play in the surf and dig in the sand. Far out on a sandbar, a group of adults played a game with a large white ball, throwing it around, bouncing in the waves.

On Sunday morning, I woke stiff and tired and aching. I rolled out of bed and put my walking clothes on, and we went back to the beach, but we didn't stay long; I hurt too badly to really enjoy the walk. I would have loved to have a bench and some shade where I could just sit and enjoy the waves, the shifting colors of the sunrise on the clouds, the little flocks of birds swooping up and down. But I didn't have that, so I turned back. While the morning was still reasonably cool, I washed all the dishes and made everything secure indoors, dumped my tanks, and hit the road.

I know it sounds like it ended on a down note, but really, truly, I had a lovely weekend. I like driving home on a Sunday morning, when I have no schedule to keep. On this trip, a wide load, complete with police escort, slowed all traffic on Highway 288 down to 45 miles per hour - nobody could pass this thing, whatever it was, it took up the whole road. We were all stuck doing 45 for 20 miles, and... I simply didn't care; I had nowhere to be. I was relaxed and happy, just the way a good weekend should leave you.