My wife and I differ on beach preferences. She grew up on the beach, worked as a lifeguard on the beach for years and likes her beaches natural and uncrowded. I grew up in the Midwest, never saw a beach until I was 20, and find that boardwalks and amusement parks and taffy stands appeal to my love of all things dive-y. I enjoy the quiet, natural beaches as well, but after about 20 minutes of staring at seagulls, I start to think to myself, “What happens here?”

So we compromise, and by ‘compromise’ I mean ‘go to the beaches my wife loves.’ That’s actually fine with me, because if I stare at the seagulls long enough, I start to unplug and appreciate what my wife sees — and I can feel my blood pressure lowering and my worries drifting away, and God knows I need that. But, dammit, sometimes you have to be able to walk along a beach and wonder if the fantastic sunburn on That Woman Over There is going to ruin her broad selection of tattoos.

Thus: Virginia Beach. In season, Virginia Beach is incredibly crowded, loud, rowdy, party-like, etc., etc., etc. It’s a beach that appeals to my inner cheese lover and repulses my wife. But we’re not in season yet.

We just got back from three days there, in the last week before Beach Season kicks in. That means we got a hotel room for 25 percent of the rate it’s going to attract next week; enormous stretches of beach were uncrowded but not unpopulated; the sunrises were beautiful and the bands on the boardwalk were just starting to work up their Skynryd covers for the weeks to come. There was a little something for her and a little something for me — but mostly, we just got a few days of peace. And that worked out just fine.