Saturday night at the beach

Los Angeles is so hot it’s burning, but the smoke isn’t close enough to us to be worrisome, so we spend our Saturday night at the beach.  I don’t bring my camera because I want to be right here, in this moment.  Instead I store everything in my head, wrapped safe for remembering.  The groups of people standing on the craggy rocks of the jetty, fishing poles flying.  More pelicans than I’ve ever seen at the beach, dive bombing the water over and over again for fresh fish.  The couple swimming in the tiny river between the ocean and the marina, small heads bobbing in the dark water.  The look on my daughter’s face as she realizes she is going to play in the sand.  The European couple down the beach in their revealing bathing suits, who stand in front of the camera and hold their American flag towels upside-down by accident.  The wind, billowing the towels into sails.  The Mexican family digging a moat around their sandcastle, getting washed away again and again.  The way they keep rebuilding.  The young children next to us who see the ocean and run straight into the water, fully clothed.  How the little girl lays down at the edge of the sand and lets the waves roll her over and over.  Her brother, who gets tired of dragging around his khakis and takes them off.  His Spiderman underwear, drooping from the weight of the water.  The sky, purpling and pinking itself like a watercolor painting.  The silhouettes of the families down the beach.  My husband, standing in water surrounded by thick seaweed.  My daughter’s face as I spin her around and around in the air, her smile wide as the sky.