I lay on my back in the sand, reveling in the warm sun bathing my body.
“I love to watch the seagulls, dipping and gliding with the breeze,” I murmured.
No answer. I glanced at my husband on the blanket beside me. He was asleep.

A fine way to treat your bride of only two months, I thought. I considered doing something evil, like filling a bucket with cold water and pouring it on his feet…or his head. But it seemed like much too much effort. Instead I lay back and continued watching the gulls.

Wouldn’t it be great to be able to fly, I thought. To soar into the sky, then drift along on the currents. I’d give anything to get a bird’s eye view of this peninsula where I’d grown up, and where John and I were considering settling.
I watched two or three birds standing on the shore. A small child approached, and they all took off, flying a bit further down the beach. Once again the little girl approached, and once again the gulls spread their wings and took off.
I began to study their movements—just how they hunched their backs, and spread their wings; the little lift they gave with their feet just before taking off. I suddenly realized that the only reason people had never flown is that we’d never really studied the birds to learn how it was done.
I started to imitate the birds’ movements. I took a few steps, just like they did, and spread my arms just like they did, lifted my toes…and I was airborne. What an absolutely magnificent feeling. Flying was just as I’d imagined it would be.
They gulls scattered, no doubt afraid of a large bird like me. I coasted on the airwaves, gliding along in the sky. Below me, the water glistened a deep, azure blue.
I practiced using my wings. It was surprisingly easy to maneuver. Up and down, and around in circles. I flew over my husband, still asleep on the beach. If he only knew what he was missing, I thought.
Once I was confident I could direct my flight as I wanted, I headed up the coast, away from the beach nearest the cottage where we were staying. One of the gulls, braver than his buddies, flew alongside me, almost like a guide. I flew past Frenchman’s inlet, and along the rocky coast north of Hamleton. This end of the peninsula was less traveled, as the coast was rocky and there were no beaches and few roads. Less traveled by land, I thought. But there was no impediment to someone soaring in the sky.
The view below me was the Maine that tourist brochures touted. Tall green pines, rocky shores, sparkling blue inlets. For the most part it was uninhabited, but here and there, nestled into a clearing in the woods, a home was visible. I flew down closer. John and I were in the market for a home, and though these were certainly far beyond our budget it didn’t cost anything to look. Especially if you could fly over!
I’d been flying for about ten minutes, and my arms were beginning to get tired. Time I turned around and headed back to Hamleton Beach. Just at that moment, the seagull flew by, as if becoming me towards another house. It was perched on a bluff, overlooking one of the most picturesque sections of the shore.
At that moment, I fell in desperate, overwhelming love with that house. I swooped down and circled, taking in every detail. French cottage style, I guess you’d call it, but with enough of New England thrown it so that it fit perfectly in its setting. The mahogany gleam of the shingles, the white and green trim, the plethora of windows that gave every room a view of the sea, and yet didn’t overwhelm the house. Even the gardens and stone walkways were laid out to perfection. There was a wooden stairway leading down to the private beach, where white sand and blue sea met. I’d always dreamed of having my personal stairway to the beach.
I needed to share this house with John, as soon as possible. I flew back towards Hamleton, trying to puzzle out, from what I knew of the peninsula, just which roads would take us there.
But as I approached our blanket, I realized I’d made a mistake. I’d paid careful attention to how the birds took off, but had not studied how they landed. And that’s why I tumbled down into the sand, rolling a few times before smashing into my husband and startling him awake.
“What the…!” John exclaimed. “What’re you doing, honey?”
The crash left me somewhat disoriented. It took a minute for me to remember all that had happened. A vision of the house filled my head.
“Oh my god, John, you have to see this house!” I said.
“What house? Where?”
“Further down the peninsula, past Edmont, I think. John, it’s absolutely the most perfect house, ever. And the view…and it has a beautiful garden, and stone walkways, and a private stairway down to the beach…”
“Woah woah woah,” said John taking me into his arms. “And just where did you hear about this wonderful house that there is no way in the world we could afford? ”
“I know we probably can’t. I don’t even know if it’s for sale. But you’ve got to see it John. It’s remarkable.”
“And when did you see it?” John asked. “Did someone spirit you away while I was sleeping?”
“No. I saw it when I was…” And then it hit me. What would John say when I told him that I had learned to fly. He would ask what I was smoking, and why I hadn’t given him any, that’s what. Maybe I should demonstrate first. I stood up, and moved my tired arms, just as I remembered watching the birds do. I lifted my shoulders, stood on my tip-toes—but I did not lift off. I was just another earth-bound mortal.
“Er…is this a new dance?” John asked. “Are you dancing to the house gods to ask for a pot of gold so you can purchase this perfect house? And by the way, you have yet to tell me when it was you saw it.”
So I told him everything, and he laughed and told me I’d been dreaming…which I might have believed if my arms hadn’t ached so, and if the vision in my head had faded, as dreams do, instead of remaining perfectly clear. So clear, that when we got home I made a sketch, and then a drawing, and finally a painting of my house. “Gull’s Hideaway,” I named it. The Gull had led me to it.
Sometimes when we went out for a random afternoon drive, I’d convince John to comb all of the little back dirt roads on the peninsula, searching for one that led to my house. Because he loved me he humored me, and even hung my painting in our bedroom, calling it “Angela’s Dream House.” But it was always Gull’s Hideaway to me.
No matter how many dirt roads we explored, we never found the house. I studied all of the maps, trying to place the house and figure out how to approach it by land. It was a demonstration of John’s great love for me that, for my birthday, he hired a pilot to fly us over the peninsula, searching for the house. He wasn’t surprised when we didn’t find it. By this time, I wasn’t either.
John was reading the paper one Sunday morning when he said, “Huh. That’s funny.”
“What?” I asked, buttering my English muffin.
“There’s a house for sale that looks like your dream house. And it’s pretty cheap.”
I grabbed the paper from his hands.
“John—this is it! This is the house. Oh, my god. We need to call the realtor right now!” The listed price on in the paper was within our range—towards the very top of our range, to be sure, but still…
“That must be a typo,” John said, and I tended to agree. But we called the realtor and made an appointment for that afternoon.
“I’ll meet you in the parking lot at Hamleton Beach,” he told us. When he arrived he was driving a Jeep.
“The roads are a little rough sometimes,” he apologized. The apology wasn’t necessary-John loves Jeeps, and immediately launched into Jeep-talk with Larry, the realtor. We climbed in (me in the back seat, of course) and headed out. Almost immediately as we exited the parking lot was a small road where the realtor turned left. How had I never noticed this road before?
“So, you’re John and Angela, and you’re looking for your dream house,” he said, as we bounced along. ”You’re gonna love Gull’s Hideaway. Everything OK back there?” he asked, because I had gasped out loud. John turned around and stared at me.
“Gull’s Hideaway?” he asked Larry.
“Bit silly, really, if you ask me, Larry replied. “But as I say, it’s just the house for you and the Missus. You might say it was made for you.”
When we pulled into the driveway, I could see at once that this was the house. Larry wanted to show off the grounds, but I couldn’t wait to get inside. I’d already seen the outside.
The house was everything I’d dreamed of. The rooms were light, airy, and beautifully proportioned. It was decorated just as I liked, too—a crisp nautical flavor that wasn’t overdone.
“Furnishings and window treatments can come with the house, if the buyer wants,” Larry said. “In fact, the house is in turn-key condition. You could move in tomorrow.”
“And the asking price?” John asked.
“Just what’s in the paper,” the Realtor said, naming that unbelievable price. “The owner has had an emergency, and needs to sell right away. He wants it to go to a nice young couple, just starting out.”
I heard a loud ‘Caw! Caw!’ and looked out the window to see a seagull perched on the deck railing. He lifted his wings and flew off.

I looked at John, and he looked at me. “We’ll take it,” we said together. “Pending inspection, appraisal, and loan agreement, of course” John was prudent enough to add.
After checking out every aspect of the house and grounds, we followed Larry back to his office and signed a promise to purchase. Still somewhat dazed when we left the office, we decided to stop for a glass of wine to celebrate. I don’t know what made me pick up a copy of the day’s paper, and glance through the real estate section.
“That’s funny,” I said. “The ad for that house is not in this copy of the paper.”
“What do you mean?” John grabbed the paper out of my hands. “Let me see.” The ad was not in that paper. We drove around town, buying papers from every newsstand that still had them available. The ad did not appear in any of them. When we go home, we asked our neighbor to borrow his real estate section, saying we’d spilt coffee on ours. The ad was not there. We checked online. “Gulf Hideaway” was not listed anywhere.
I began to wonder if it had all been a dream. I made John drive us back to the cottage—and there it was. Our new home. I led John down the stairway to our private beach. But we weren’t alone. The gulls were already there.