Frisbee

People dot the sand facing eastward, hypnotized by waves folding onto the shore. Seagulls shriek as they streak past. Pelicans fly by in gentle formations. Teenagers skim the shallows in clusters and toddlers dig in the sand. Ah, yes, New Smyrna Beach.

Years ago, this was home for our family for a couple of weeks every summer. Sublime days of tight pink skin and salty locks, dinners cooked en masse, and a revolving cast of visitors.

We’d stake out our spot on the beach, erect a tent for shade, and spend the days swimming, playing and dozing. Collecting seashells and memories, building sandcastles and relationships.

I was usually the main adult-in-charge, mostly just making sure the same number of kids who went into the water came out. I’d reapply sunscreen, administer Band Aids, force fluids and blissfully relax in the shade of our tent.

One day, my younger son, Daniel, and I decided to play frisbee.

Frisbee is one of those deceptively simple activities. No score to keep, no bounds to be out of, no list of rules to follow. Just cock your wrist and toss it to the other person. Almost Zen-like.

As we tossed, the shifting breeze played with the disc, sending it floating and twisting in unpredictable paths, forcing us to physically contort to catch even the easiest of throws. Undeterred, we kept playing and laughing as the gusts challenged even our experienced form.

Suddenly, the frisbee twisted rapidly, landed on the sand and started to roll on its side.

Daniel and I both followed it as it rolled down the shoreline.

It kept going.

We kept going.

Our fast walk became a light jog. It rolled past the neighboring sunbathers and kept moving. Without a word we stayed with it, neither of us about to stop.

Several seconds passed, and it was still rolling. Unspoken, we both knew our goal was to see how long it would spin on down the sand. It wobbled past the lifeguard stand with us close behind. It steadied and picked up speed as the wind shifted.

It kept going.

We kept going.

We laughed in disbelief as it rolled farther down the beach. Past the ice cream truck. Rolling. Wobbling. Righting.

Finally, and sadly, it slowed, vibrated valiantly and dropped.

We jumped up and down, laughing, our mouths gaping in disbelief. Whooping in delight. There was no explanation for what happened. There was no recording of it, no witnesses, but us. It was our private miracle.

The moment captured who we are. We move in a rhythm without words. We don’t keep score; we can speak at great lengths or just exist. We followed that frisbee the way we’ve always followed life: with curiosity, unhurried and together.