To a recipe on growing up happy: add two parts boy, dirt, fire, sunrises and sunsets to taste, and you have just about the perfect weekend.
I wish I could see the boys in the water for the fog.
Men, I think, surveying a pile of clothes, warming but the topmost layer of cold sand.
Of all days, I wish, and only wish. The steady hiss of surf.
For a moment the clouds part, but they are gone, laughing at ill-timed take-offs or a flock of silent pelicans pulling out of the next wave.
I wish I could see you.