Gilbert meets the sea.

It's too cold and too windy, he doesn't like his dinner. Can we go play? I run down to join him by the water. Don't get wet, his mother cautions. Resigned to sand in my shoes and making peace with the prospect of a total soaking, I join him in the lace-like dance against the waves. This proves too simple a step, so he stoops and collects a hand full of rocks and hurls them one by one into the water before shrieking and racing back behind me. So it begins: a quixotic war against the ineffable tide. We race up the beck and collect stones, then hurdle down again. We wait with bated breath for the waves to retreat and charge in screaming, throwing rocks. When the water comes in, we sprint to outstrip the foam nipping at our ankles. Mother comes down and shows us how to skip flat stones on the retreating waves. Gilbert stands and whoops into the coastline, holding the biggest stone he can find. His small body is etched in gold, from his long eyelashes to the turned up right leg of his pants, sand coated and exposing one skinny ankle. He turns and darts back to us, the collects stones for his mother. We run a few more attacks against the Pacific, howling. Finally, exhausted, we join the family, and walk the pier. I don't like it! The dark water at the end where the fishermen stake out the mornings and afternoons roils below and stirs up deep uncertainty. I'm afraid my hat will fall in! I slip my arm around his waist, between his small body and the ocean and the night. I pull his hood up over his baseball cap. If you go in, I promise, I'll come in after you. I'm cold, he says. We walk back towards the car. I didn't like my dinner. Can we get ice cream? He wraps his arms around my legs. Can we all go get ice cream?


Gramdma and Papa are beautiful. Optimism and gratitude are formidable forces. Their strength is hundredweight.