Rocket

At Ecola the only parking lot is on a cliff above the beach. So we deposited the truck there, grabbed as much of our stuff as we could carry, then walked down through a tunnel in thick vegetation. At the base of the cliff is a swath of tumbled, rounded lava rock; we picked our way across that to the sand, where Artist Sister-in-law and her husband had set up camp. A lot of their friends were there, and also siblings and parents and also my sibling: my youngest sister, with her husband and son.

Her son – my little nephew Rocket – spotted us as soon as we reached the beach. He's three. He ran to us the way exuberant three-year-olds will: fast, headlong and shouting. I dropped everything and scooped him up in a giant embrace.

He wriggled out of my arms. Run with me, Jen! he cried. So he and I sprinted along the beach the way joyful people will: fast, headlong and shouting.