A yellow splotch mars what is otherwise a perfectly uniform sky, blue as far as the eye cares to acknowledge. Warmth rains down from above and diffuses into ubiquity, almost as if it were a liquid poured lovingly through a spout. The ocean, dark counterpart to the heavens, skulks underfoot in an eternal effort to wash away the entire beach without detection.

Feet stomp, mouths squeal. Marco is reunited with his surname. Snacks sizzle, birds stalk. A miniature monarchy is built of mud. Skins bronze, surfers bail. Smiling faces abound.

At the heart of an air conditioned apartment, I delightedly avoid it all.