Bethany Beach, Delaware, July 22, 2015

★★★★★ The sand was cool and rain-damp still when toes dug into it. The waves were irregular and choppy, and a fishy smell came in on the water. Already, before the lifeguards were even posted, people were bristling about territorial boundaries. A truck went back and forth on the back of the beach, dealing with the storm-tossed guard chairs. The three-year-old defiantly hurled wet sand with his shovel at the advancing foam, and declared he was throwing poop at the ocean. He allowed the waves, backlit and pale green, to explode around him, and agreed to be carried further down into the surf till the bitter water splashed his face. The breeze chilled a wave-soaked t-shirt. In the afternoon, the clouds were white and made for slow watching. The air let the sun’s warmth come through clean and sharp, without trapping and abusing it. None of the ordinary suffering component of vacation could be found. A woman with a ukelele sat on a bench by the boardwalk and sang a popular song about murdering schoolchildren. The three-year-old had bought a bright green water gun and he drew a bead on a passing seagull with it. By ice-cream time the ocean was navy blue against a faint pink eastern sky. A sparrow moved in the dusk like one of the dark fallen pinecones gone ambulatory.