Winning dirty

(Florida) — The boy was supposed to be napping. He was a sweaty, tired mess. The morning began with meeting a beach Santa in a torrential downpour. When the skies cleared, he led us to the beach for football and sandcastle-building. By the time he had a burger in his gullet, it should’ve been straight to bed.

But the rain hadn’t started yet. The wife and I were listening to the Avett Brothers on the porch and looking at some pictures. So, the boy went off for what was supposed to be a 15-minute bike ride down the street with his Grandma. Half an hour later, he wasn’t back.

When he finally appeared, he was still sweating and everything in his eyes said he was ready to fall asleep on the floor.

“I met a beautiful girl,” he said. “That’s why we were gone so long.”

And then he stumbled into the house for a nap. I learned later that the objective of his affection and tardiness was a Hispanic girl named Catalina. Makes sense, I thought.

My boy and I are alike in more ways than I’ve realized. Today, I made a few more connections. Like me, he doesn’t care if he gets dirty, as long as he’s having fun. He doesn’t care how tired he is, as long as he is doing what he wants to do. He will go until he collapses, and then only when forced by simply biology and physics.

(Not that you come here to see pics of my boy, but I have a ton from today’s morning at the beach over at my Flickr account.)

I’m not sure if it says I’m still acting like a four-year old or that my boy and I have a sense for what it’s like to get dirty for fun and make it work for us. Either way I could get sort of used to this whole beach living thing. The occasional rains slow down life enough to force the boy and me under shelter. He sleeps. I work. When the skies clear, it’s back to fun in the dirt.

That’s a life I could sign up for.