Baptism.

Greg's family spent summers at the Cape when he was a kid. July and August were tan and sandy days at the beach with lunch out of the cooler and, if the four kids deserved a special treat and Nan was buying, fries from the concession stand. The Atlantic was his playground. He learned to swim and sail and dive, and he can still hold his breath under water longer than anyone I know. The Cape is Greg's favorite place, Fenway included.

Last Saturday, we packed the car to bursting and headed to the beach. With Baby C so small, we didn't drive eight hours up to the Cape but are hanging out in Delaware for a week in a rented beach house with some friends. (They're brave enough to vacation with a nine month old because they have two sweet-hearted and impish girls, ages six and two.)

Greg couldn't wait to show Baby C the beach. He took his baby, sticky with sunscreen, up to the wild Atlantic waves. "See, baby." He held her out, let her feet get wet. She screamed at the surf and clung to him. "It's okay, baby. This is the ocean." Later, under the shade tent, she slept covered in sand. I pulled out sandwiches from the cooler. Greg swam past the breakers. It's summer.