Tom’s our trip planner, and I usually just climb into the front seat and ask, “Where are we headed.” This time, for our annual drive up Highway 1 along the West Coast, he added a new trick: Harbor hopping.

For years, we were a bit obsessed about finding remote campsites and never paying more than $25 a night, preferably less or even free. We were proud of our boondocking, never plugging in, proud of our independent, off-the-grid wandering.

But over time, we’ve lowered our snooty noses, accepted tighter quarters and loosened up our purse strings. We’ve discovered that nearby neighbors can be interesting, and being close to amenities, like crab shacks and beaches is worth the “sacrifice.” And this time, we were also looking for wifi to be able to watch the Democratic National Convention. So we paid up, between $50 and $60 a night.

We started in Morro Bay, where our spot was just over the dunes from the beach and a short walk from the harbor. We ambled into town, talked with locals and strolled the beach.

Then we rolled on to Bodega Bay, which is becoming a regular stop on our coast crawl. We backed into our spot, threw open the doors and watched the boats bobbing in the harbor until darkness and chill forced us to close up The Epic Van.

Next stop, a spot on the mouth of the Albion River, where the campground is along the water, under the only redwood bridge still in use on Highway 1. The towering structure was built in World War II, when steel was being prioritized for the war effort. The redwood timbers are still strong, but a steel support span, added later, is in need of replacement.

Fishing boats chug in and out past the campground. And a group of young campers next to us started chugging out of a vodka bottle before they got their tent up. They partied well into the night, despite the 9 p.m. quite hour. I breathed deep and told myself to remember I was young and stupid once.

Needing a bit of quiet, we next camped at Westport Union Landing State Beach, not a harbor, but my absolute favorite campground. It’s up on the bluff, in fact half of it is falling into the ocean, a bit of an inconvenience. But the views are to die for. The only sound is the ocean roar and the fog rolling in on cat feet.

The next harbor on our tour was in Brookings, Oregon. The campground is really a repurposed parking lot. But it has glorious views of the beach, sparkling water and surfers. At night, the sound of the waves lulled us to sleep. In the morning, we walked the lovely beach, along with kids, dog walkers and shell collectors.

And the past two nights we have camped at the Suislaw Marina, first in a spot with a water view, and then one with a wetlands view, both with friendly, respectful neighbors.

Between harbors, we stopped in Carmel where, along with our regular enjoyments, we were thrilled to visit with our niece, Allie, and great-niece, Eleanor. Allie was driving Eleanor to Chapman University, where she will start school this fall as an undeclared freshman and continue her amazing talent on the swim team. Eleanor and Tom hiked the mission trail, I visited the best yarn store in the country, Monarch Knitting in Pacific Grove, and we ate Indian food.

Farther north, over the Golden Gate Bridge, we ate oysters along Tamales Bay, and stopped in Fort Bragg, where we once had our offices for the North Coast News, a newspaper we owned in 1989-90. We took a selfie by our former office door, bought some art at our favorite artists collective and ate at the local breakfast hangout, Eggheads.

We hiked at Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park, where we volunteered for three months at the beginning of our travels in The Epic Van, and ran into some new friends on the trail from Washington, D.C., who shared our taste in journalism, hiking and politics.

By the end of our coastal harbor hop, I was a total convert. I wondered why it took me so long to realize how cool harbors are. First, they’re always by the water. (Duuuuh.) Second, there’s always good seafood. (Double duuuh.) And, third, they have an honest, working vibe, even when inundated with us landlubbers.

I’ll be circling them on the Rand McNalley from now on.