She sighed, then reached over and gave Nuki Nuki’s loose button-eye a little twist. "Okay, Nuki Nuki," she whispered. "Show me what you’ve got."
We arrived at Crescent Cove, a tiny beach town with a rickety pier and the best shaved ice this side of the highway. Beach Mama had a laminated schedule: 9 AM sandcastle engineering, 11 AM snorkel safety drill, 2 PM sunscreen reapplication (mandatory). She blew her whistle at seagulls. Beach Mama and My Nuki Nuki Summer Vacation - M...
But then she paused. She zoomed in with her binoculars. The mural had a speech bubble: "Relax, Beach Mama. The best tide is the one you miss." She sighed, then reached over and gave Nuki
I hugged the otter tighter. "Maybe."
"Just for safe keeping," she said.
It wasn't the vacation she planned. But it was the one we'd remember. And at the very end, when we packed up to leave, Mom tucked Nuki Nuki into her own bag. Beach Mama had a laminated schedule: 9 AM
But I had other plans. My secret weapon was Nuki Nuki—my worn-out stuffed sea otter. His fur was matted, one eye was a loose button, and he smelled faintly of old saltwater taffy. Mom wanted to leave him home. "He's a hygiene hazard," she said. I smuggled him in my beach bag.