The swell had bumped up overnight. The wind, which had been calm all night blew from the land and groomed the waves slick. I nudged Louise awake and she yawned then laughed. We traded waves for hours. She on that new balsa longboard and me flapping about with my old thruster. Morning gave way to afternoon and we were done. Cooked by sun and salt. We picked our way over the coquina rocks back to the old beach park. For the last two days we had been alone here, in a place I had come as a child, now left abandoned to the grasses and gulls. During those long lost summers we'd reunite with the same strangers who treated each other like family for two weeks in July. This is where I was when they had landed on the moon. Now the place was lonely, like the moon itself. Except for an old RV that must of arrived during our surf session. The evening was settling in and the breeze brought over a familiar scent. Lasagna. I squinted over at the RV and to my surprise out popped Bert and Ruth Tortelli. "It's about time you had something to eat," exclaimed Ruth in that Brooklyn accent. "Who's your friend"?

The Lasagna was just as I had remembered, a rich garlic melange with fresh vegetables and fine sausage. Like magic, Louise produced a rosemary batard with olive tapenade and we watched from the blanket as another perfect set rolled in. I poured Happy Camper Merlot and we toasted to lonely flags on the moon and the good times ahead.