Breakfast By The Beach Quotes

There was no Disney World then, just rows of orange trees. Millions of them. Stretching for miles And somewhere near the middle was the Citrus Tower, which the tourists climbed to see even more orange trees. Every month an eighty-year-old couple became lost in the groves, driving up and down identical rows for days until they were spotted by helicopter or another tourist on top of the Citrus Tower. They had lived on nothing but oranges and come out of the trees drilled on vitamin C and checked into the honeymoon suite at the nearest bed-and-breakfast. "The Miami Seaquarium put in a monorail and rockets started going off at Cape Canaveral, making us feel like we were on the frontier of the future. Disney bought up everything north of Lake Okeechobee, preparing to shove the future down our throats sideways. "Things evolved rapidly! Missile silos in Cuba. Bales on the beach. Alligators are almost extinct and then they aren't. Juntas hanging shingles in Boca Raton. Richard Nixon and Bebe Rebozo skinny-dipping off Key Biscayne. We atone for atrocities against the INdians by playing Bingo. Shark fetuses in formaldehyde jars, roadside gecko farms, tourists waddling around waffle houses like flocks of flightless birds. And before we know it, we have The New Florida, underplanned, overbuilt and ripe for a killer hurricane that'll knock that giant geodesic dome at Epcot down the trunpike like a golf ball, a solid one-wood by Buckminster Fuller. "I am the native and this is my home. Faded pastels, and Spanish tiles constantly slipping off roofs, shattering on the sidewalk. Dogs with mange and skateboard punks with mange roaming through yards, knocking over garbage cans. Lunatics wandering the streets at night, talking about spaceships. Bail bondsmen wake me up at three A.M. looking for the last tenant. Next door, a mail-order bride is clubbed by a smelly ma in a mechanic's shirt. Cats violently mate under my windows and rats break-dance in the drop ceiling. And I'm lying in bed with a broken air conditioner, sweating and sipping lemonade through a straw. And I'm thinking, geez, this used to be a great state. "You wanna come to Florida? You get a discount on theme-park tickets and find out you just bough a time share. Or maybe you end up at Cape Canaveral, sitting in a field for a week as a space shuttle launch is canceled six times. And suddenly vacation is over, you have to catch a plane, and you see the shuttle take off on TV at the airport. But you keep coming back, year after year, and one day you find you're eighty years old driving through an orange grove.

We are brought up in the ethic that others, any others, all others, are be definition more interesting that ourselves; taught to be diffident, just this side of self-effacing ... Only the very young and the very old may recount their dreams at breakfast, dwell upon self, interrupt with memories of beach picnics and favorite Liberty lawn dresses and the rain trout in a creek near Colorado Springs. The rest of us are expected, rightly, to affect absorption in other people's favorite dresses, other people's trout.

On beach holidays, as perhaps in life more generally, the only truly enjoyable time of the day is breakfast.

But something is going to happen, that's for sure. It depends on how bold we choose to be. We could get out, maybe, or we could die, or we could be badly injured going over a waterfall and end up on a gravel beach only to be found by a young boy who would carve messages in their toes and shove us back out to sea. There are lots of possibilities, and I am happy with all of them." "Do you like mornings?" Tom asked, leaning on his elbow. "Not usually," Reg said. "I'm typically rather sullen over my breakfast, and I'm sure the crawdads notice. But what is truly strange is that I never liked mornings when I could have them with real sunrises and real dew on roses and real paperboys wrecking real bicycles on the sidewalk outside my window. How I ever could have remained asleep and voluntarily missed a sunrise, I can't explain. If you're right and we get out, I don't think I'll miss another one.

Then I thought about the little effort I'd made that day, to get to this beach and eat breakfast. It was great effort, actually. And for some of us, that is what recovery from addiction takes. Little, great, conscious efforts.

Oh I could be out, rollicking in the ripeness of my flesh and others’, could be drinking things and eating things and rubbing mine against theirs, speculating about this person or that, waving, indicating hello with a sudden upward jutting of my chin, sitting in the backseat of someone else’s car, bumping up and down the San Francisco hills, south of Market, seeing people attacking their instruments, afterward stopping at a bodega, parking, carrying the bottles in a paper bag, the glass clinking, all our faces bright, glowing under streetlamps, down the sidewalk to this or that apartment party, hi, hi, putting the bottles in the fridge, removing one for now, hating the apartment, checking the view, sitting on the arm of a couch and being told not to, and then waiting for the bathroom, staring idly at that ubiquitous Ansel Adams print, Yosemite, talking to a short-haired girl while waiting in the hallway, talking about teeth, no reason really, the train of thought unclear, asking to see her fillings, no, really, I’ll show you mine first, ha ha, then no, you go ahead, I’ll go after you, then, after using the bathroom she is still there, still in the hallway, she was waiting not just for the bathroom but for me, and so eventually we’ll go home together, her apartment, where she lives alone, in a wide, immaculate railroad type place, newly painted, decorated with her mother, then sleeping in her oversized, oversoft white bed, eating breakfast in her light-filled nook, then maybe to the beach for a few hours with the Sunday paper, then wandering home whenever, never- Fuck. We don't even have a baby-sitter.

In the bright sunshine of the next morning, the waves rolled in from the blue Atlantic. Frank and Joe, in bathing trunks, dashed across the beach and dived into the breakers. “Terrific!” Joe yelled, riding in on the crest of a wave. “Where’s Chet?” “Getting breakfast!” Frank shouted as he swam. “Since when can he wait to eat?

The list of correlations to that night is as long as the Jersey coast. And so is the list of reasons I shouldn't be looking forward to seeing him at school. But I can't help it. He's already texted me three times this morning: Can I pick you up for school? and Do u want 2 have breakfast? and R u getting my texts? My thumbs want to answer "yes" to all of the above, but my dignity demands that I don't answer at all. He called my his student. He stood there alone with me on the beach and told me he thinks of me as a pupil. That our relationship is platonic. And everyone knows what platonic means-rejected. Well, I might be his student, but I'm about to school, him on a few things. The first lesson of the day is Silent Treatment 101. So when I see him in the hall, I give him a polite nod and brush right by him. The zap from the slight contact never quite fades, which mean he's following me. I make it to my locker before his hand is on my arm. "Emma." The way he whispers my name sends goose bumps all the way to my baby toes. But I'm still in control. I nod to him, dial the combination to my locker, then open it in his face. He moves back before contact. Stepping around me, he leans his hand against the locker door and turns me around to face him. "That's not very nice." I raise my best you-started-this brow. He sighs. "I guess that means you didn't miss me." There are so many things I could pop off right now. Things like, "But at least I had Toraf to keep my company" or "You were gone?" Or "Don't feel bad, I didn't miss my calculus teacher either." But the goal is to say nothing. So I turn around. I transfer books and papers between my locker and backpack. As I stab a pencil into my updo, his breath pushes against my earlobe when he chuckles. "So your phone's not broken; you just didn't respond to my texts." Since rolling my eyes doesn't make a sound, it's still within the boundaries of Silent Treatment 101. So I do this while I shut my locker. As I push past him, he grabs my arm. And I figure if stomping on his toe doesn't make a sound... "My grandmother's dying," he blurts. Commence with the catching-Emma-off-guard crap. How can I continue Silent Treatment 101 after that? He never mentioned his grandmother before, but then again, I never mentioned mine either. "I'm sorry, Galen." I put my hand on his, give it a gentle squeeze. He laughs. Complete jackass. "Conveniently, she lives in a condo in Destin and her dying request is to meet you. Rachel called your mom. We're flying out Saturday afternoon, coming back Sunday night. I already called Dr. Milligan." "Un-freaking-believable.

Where are we going?" "East. To where the sun rises." "Seriously?" He thumped the dash-not too hard-and I actually felt a little burst of warm air. "You've been to Long Beach Island, right?You told me that in an e-mail." "yeah, Surf City." "We have a house in Barnegat Light. I thought we'd go there. We'll have breakfast somewhere and come back. You okay with that?" The beach. In late December. At night. "I'm absolutely fine with it." "So," he said. "So." "We okay?" "I think so," I answered. "I hope we'll be a lot better than that." "Yeah,me,too.

If your pre-Frugal Hedonism socialising revolved mostly around eating out, bars, and movies, it’s time to seed your social life with a whole new crop of cheap thrills. Bring people wild berry picking with you! Invite them along to catch a train to the beach for a day. Hold a story-telling night. Play ultimate Frisbee, or chess. Take a long ramble with a friend and a dog – maybe make a date to do it weekly. Invite people round for casual dinners, lunches, breakfast and picnics. Offer to ask someone you know for help with taking up the cuffs on a pair of pants, an IT problem, or a trombone lesson. Then eat lunch together.

Anyone looking back at the log later, trying to piece together a mystery, would find nothing but times and dry entries. It was a lazy Sunday. What made it meaningful were not the facts or details, but the imperceptibles. Inner life. The smell of the beach grass and the feel of sand on a bathroom floor when changing out of a swimsuit. The heat of American summer. Line ten of the log read simply: 10:22 Condor ate second breakfast. It couldn’t capture the perfect toasting of the onion bagel or the saltiness of the fish in contrast with the thickness of cream cheese. It was time lost in a book—a journey of imagination, transportation—which to others simply looks like sitting or lying stomach-down on the rug in front of a summertime fire, legs bent at the knees, up ninety degrees, kicking absently, feet languid in the air.

I pulled a black party dress and fake pearls out of a wooden trunk- very 'Breakfast at Tiffany's'- and went into the wardrobe to put the dress on. When I came out, River took one look at me and grinned. A nice, kind of 'appreciative' grin. "You need to put your hair up," he said. So I dug around in a small box of cheap jewelry until I had gathered a handful of bobby pins. Then River appeared behind me, and, with his long, tan fingers, started lifting my hair, one strand at a time, twirling it and pinning it until it was all piled on my head in a graceful twist. My hair was thick with dried salt from sitting on the beach, and tangled from the wind, but River made it look pretty damn elegant, all things considered. When he was done, I went over and looked at myself in one of the long dressing mirrors- it was warped and stained with age, but I could still see half my face pretty well.

CHAPTER 1: Fourteen year old Augustus Tomlin's day started out just like any other—normally. He got out of bed, dressed, brushed his teeth, then headed for the kitchen to join his adoptive parents, Earl and Marge for breakfast. This was the first day of their vacation, and admittedly, Augie (as he liked to be called) wasn't as excited about it as he would've been had Earl and Marge decided to take them all to Disneyland instead, because firstly, he'd been dealing with a paralyzing fear of water all of his life, and secondly, they were staying in a cabin on an isolated stretch of beach in the Florida Keys. Nevertheless, there was no way for Augie to know just then that by the end of the day he'd be traveling in an under-sea carriage drawn by four of the most incredible creatures he'd ever laid eyes upon, heading for destinations untold somewhere at the bottom of the ocean at a million miles an hour.

Fifty Ways to Love Your Partner 1. Love yourself first. 2. Start each day with a hug. 3. Serve breakfast in bed. 4. Say “I love you” every time you part ways. 5. Compliment freely and often. 6. Appreciate—and celebrate—your differences. 7. Live each day as if it’s your last. 8. Write unexpected love letters. 9. Plant a seed together and nurture it to maturity. 10. Go on a date once every week. 11. Send flowers for no reason. 12. Accept and love each others’ family and friends. 13. Make little signs that say “I love you” and post them all over the house. 14. Stop and smell the roses. 15. Kiss unexpectedly. 16. Seek out beautiful sunsets together. 17. Apologize sincerely. 18. Be forgiving. 19. Remember the day you fell in love—and recreate it. 20. Hold hands. 21. Say “I love you” with your eyes. 22. Let her cry in your arms. 23. Tell him you understand. 24. Drink toasts of love and commitment. 25. Do something arousing. 26. Let her give you directions when you’re lost. 27. Laugh at his jokes. 28. Appreciate her inner beauty. 29. Do the other person’s chores for a day. 30. Encourage wonderful dreams. 31. Commit a public display of affection. 32. Give loving massages with no strings attached. 33. Start a love journal and record your special moments. 34. Calm each others’ fears. 35. Walk barefoot on the beach together. 36. Ask her to marry you again. 37. Say yes. 38. Respect each other. 39. Be your partner’s biggest fan. 40. Give the love your partner wants to receive. 41. Give the love you want to receive. 42. Show interest in the other’s work. 43. Work on a project together. 44. Build a fort with blankets. 45. Swing as high as you can on a swing set by moonlight. 46. Have a picnic indoors on a rainy day. 47. Never go to bed mad. 48. Put your partner first in your prayers. 49. Kiss each other goodnight. 50. Sleep like spoons. Mark and Chrissy Donnelly

Jiya Dalal. You’re holding my soul in your hands. Marry me. Cook breakfast with me every morning. Let me hold you and make you safe. Forever, sweetheart. Keep me grounded while I watch you fly.

I don’t really see how it could ever be a bad thing, being able to afford three nights in a place like this … where all you need to think about is whether to go to the pool or beach, what to eat for breakfast. Rich people problems.

. The Itinerary Friday 4:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m.: Arrivals 6:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m.: Cocktail hour/hors d’oeuvres 7:00 p.m.: Dinner on the deck Saturday 8:00 a.m.: Yoga by the pool/continental breakfast 10:00 a.m. to noon: Shopping in town Noon to 5:00 p.m.: Beach, lunch, pool 5:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m.: Get ready for dinner; cocktails and snacks 7:30 p.m.: Dinner at Nautilus (suggested colors: black and/or white) 10:00 p.m.: Maxxtone at the Chicken Box! Sunday Free morning, continental breakfast Noon: Lunch at Galley Beach (suggested colors: hot pink or orange) 2:00 p.m.: Sail aboard Endeavor 7:00 p.m.: Pizza party 8:30 p.m.: Ice cream truck and fireworks on the beach Monday Departures

The place was adorable, a white Tudoresque cottage tucked down a narrow road. It had a shingled roof and warped windows lined with flower boxes and a chimney whose smoke curled romantically through the mist, windows softly aglow as we pulled into the parking lot. For two days, we moved between the beach, the redwoods, the inn’s cozy library, and the dining room with its dark wooden tables and blazing fire. We played UNO and Hearts and something called Quiddler. We drank foamy beers and had big English breakfasts.

author

COMING

me. You’ve

I stopped in the kitchen, a mirror image of mine: on the left a breakfast nook, where the table I’d seen Gus sit behind so often was pushed almost flush to the window, and the counters and cupboards on the right.

THE OLD TESTAMENT begins with darkness, and the last of the Gospels ends with it. “Darkness was upon the face of the deep,” Genesis says. Darkness was where it all started. Before darkness, there had never been anything other than darkness, void and without form. At the end of John, the disciples go out fishing on the Sea of Tiberias. It is night. They have no luck. Their nets are empty. Then they spot somebody standing on the beach. At first they don’t see who it is in the darkness. It is Jesus. The darkness of Genesis is broken by God in great majesty speaking the word of creation. “Let there be light!” That’s all it took. The darkness of John is broken by the flicker of a charcoal fire on the sand. Jesus has made it. He cooks some fish on it for his old friends’ breakfast. On the horizon there are the first pale traces of the sun getting ready to rise. All the genius and glory of God are somehow represented by these two scenes, not to mention what Saint Paul calls God’s foolishness. The original creation of light itself is almost too extraordinary to take in. The little cook-out on the beach is almost too ordinary to take seriously. Yet if Scripture is to be believed, enormous stakes were involved in them both and still are. Only a saint or a visionary can begin to understand God setting the very sun on fire in the heavens, and therefore God takes another tack. By sheltering a spark with a pair of cupped hands and blowing on it, the Light of the World gets enough of a fire going to make breakfast. It’s not apt to be your interest in cosmology or even in theology that draws you to it so much as it’s the empty feeling in your stomach. You don’t have to understand anything very complicated. All you’re asked is to take a step or two forward through the darkness and start digging in.

Dorothy Koomson is the author of seven other novels: The Cupid Effect, The Chocolate Run, My Best Friend’s Girl, Marshmallows for Breakfast, The Ice Cream Girls and The Woman He Loved Before –all of which have spent several weeks on the Sunday Times bestseller list. Her books have been translated into thirty languages and regularly top the bestseller charts around the

Beth awoke on Friday morning, briefly disturbed by the memory of the firefly racing at an unnatural speed toward her bay window. She glanced around the room for a moment, trying to get her bearings. The bed and breakfast, she remembered, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Brushing away her anxious feelings, she decided to greet the day with enthusiasm. After all, she was eager to set up the studio, paint a preliminary draft of The Virginia Point Cove, and possibly unpack her gardening gear. The pitiful little garden would need attention

As negotiations seemed to be grinding to a halt, we were all feeling frustrated. Steve looked around at John, Judi, and the others. He could see that everybody had gotten a bit stretched on all our various projects. He decided we needed a break. He didn’t lead us into the bush this time. Instead, Steve said a magic word. “Samoa.” “Sea snakes?” I asked. “Surfing,” he said. He planned a ten-day shoot for a surfing documentary. Steve loved surfing almost as much as he loved wildlife. The pounding his body had taken playing rugby, wrestling crocs, and doing heavy construction at the zoo had left him with problem knees and a bad shoulder. He felt his time tackling some of the biggest surf might be nearing an end. In Samoa, Steve didn’t spend just a few hours out in the waves. He would be out there twelve to fourteen hours a day. I didn’t surf, but I was awestruck at Steve’s ability to stare down the face of a wave that was as high as a building. He had endurance beyond any surfer I had ever seen. Steve had a support boat nearby, so he could swim over, get hydrated, or grab a protein bar. But that was it. He didn’t stop for lunch. He would eat breakfast, surf all day, and then eat a big dinner. I knew this was the best therapy for him. Surfing at Boulders was downright dangerous, but Steve reveled in the challenge. He surfed with Wes, his best mate in the world. I sat on a rocky point with my eye glued to the camera so I wouldn’t miss a single wave. While Bindi gathered shells and played on the beach under her nanny’s watchful eye, I admired Steve with his long arms and broad shoulders, powerfully paddling onto wave after wave. Not even the Pacific Ocean with its most powerful sets could slow him down. He caught the most amazing barrels I have ever seen, and carved up the waves with such ferocity that I didn’t want the camera to miss a single moment. On the beach in Samoa, while Bindi helped her dad wax his board, I caught a glimpse of joy in eyes that had been so sad.

Only the very young and the very old may recount their dreams at breakfast, dwell upon self, interrupt with memories of beach picnics and favorite Liberty lawn dresses and the rainbow trout in a creek near Colorado Springs. The rest of us are expected, rightly, to affect absorption in other people's favorite dresses, other people's trout.

Mornings they get up late, eat breakfast in their cottages, then cross the road and spend the day gathered on the beach in front of Pasco’s place, one of about a dozen clapboard houses set on concrete pylons near the breakwater on the east end of Goshen Beach. They set up beach chairs, or just lie on towels, and the women sip wine coolers and read magazines and chat while the men drink beer or throw in a fishing line. There’s always a nice little crowd there, Pasco and his wife and kids and grandkids, and the whole Moretti crew—Peter and Paul Moretti, Sal Antonucci, Tony Romano, Chris Palumbo and wives and kids. Always a lot of people dropping by, coming in and out, having a good time. Rainy days they sit in the cottages and do jigsaw puzzles, play cards, take naps, shoot the shit, listen to the Sox broadcasters jaw their way through the rain delay. Or maybe drive into the main town two miles inland and see a movie or get an ice cream or pick up some groceries.

So there we were before breakfast in the hotel garden beneath palm trees, all wearing our matching conference T-shirts. The sound of waves crashing into the hotel beach was drowned out by a boom box playing loud electro workout music to pump us up: exuberant, high-octane tunes with pulsating rhythms that keep building to new crescendos. After dividing into teams, we spent the next forty-five minutes racing from one exercise to the next—planks, squats, sit-ups, sprints, and burpees (a combined squat, push-up, and vertical jump)—constantly high-fiving each other and shouting encouragements. At the end, everyone was exhausted, and we all congratulated each other for our efforts, agreeing vociferously how much fun it was. I enjoyed myself, but was it fun? I did the exercises as best I could, but what I actually enjoyed was the camaraderie, the beautiful setting, the high-fiving, and even the music. Afterward, I also enjoyed the feeling of having exercised intensely. But frankly, the planks, squats, sit-ups, sprints, and burpees were hard. The routine brought to mind the running guru George Sheehan’s observation that “exercise is done against one’s wishes and maintained only because the alternative is worse.

I, the driver of this car, that used to be Jim Ross, the teamster, and J.A. Ross and Co., general merchandise at Queen Centre, California, am now J. Arnold Ross, oil operator, and my breakfast is about digested, and I am a little too warm in my big new overcoat because the sun is coming out, and I have a new well flowing four thousand barrels at Los Lobos river, and sixteen on the pump at Antelope, and I'm on my way to sign a lease at Beach City, and we'll make up our schedule in the next couple of hours, and 'Bunny' is sitting beside me, and he is well and strong, and is going to own everything I am making, and follow in my footsteps, except that he will never make the ugly blunders or have painful memories that I have, but will be wise and perfect and do everything I say.

the Sabal airport. I blinked against the brightness of the sunlight, and my heart lifted. I was so glad to be away from cold, gray New England. “Hurry up, Mom!” said Liz impatiently. “Angie’s waiting.” When we walked into the waiting area, Angie rushed forward and swept Liz into a warm embrace. Watching them, I smiled. With no siblings, they’d

How are things going at Tides?” Jane’s family had owned the bed-and-breakfast on the beach for generations. It had been run by her great-grandparents then her grandparents then her parents. Jane’s dad had died long ago, and her mother, Addie, had run it on her own until her recent memory problems had surfaced.

RECRUITMENT Ripley Residence 2107 Mockingbird Road Vienna, Virginia January 16 1530 hours “Hello, Ben,” said the man in my living room. “My name is Alexander Hale. I work for the CIA.” And just like that, my life became interesting. It hadn’t been, up till then. Not by a long shot. That day had been a prime example: day 4,583, seven months into the twelfth year of my mundane existence. I had dragged myself out of bed, eaten breakfast, gone to middle school, been bored in class, stared at girls I was too embarrassed to approach, had lunch, slogged through gym, fallen asleep in math, been harassed by Dirk the Jerk, taken the bus home . . . And found a man in a tuxedo sitting on the couch. I didn’t doubt he was a spy for a second. Alexander Hale looked exactly like I’d always imagined a spy would. A tiny bit older, perhaps—he seemed about fifty—but still suave and debonair. He had a small scar on his chin—from a bullet, I guessed, or maybe something more exotic, like a crossbow. There was something very James Bond about him; I could imagine he’d been in a car chase on the way over and taken out the bad guys without breaking a sweat. My parents weren’t home. They never were when I got back from school. Alexander had obviously “let himself in.” The photo album from our family vacation to Virginia Beach sat open on the

Come on inside, and take the chair across from the big television screen on the wall. Are you sitting across from the TV now?” “Yes.” “Use the remote to turn it on. We’re going to watch the Wade Trainer militia program. Three days ago. That’s the day that somebody caught you sneaking around the compound. You won’t actually be there, but you can see everything that’s happening. Just like it happened before. But you’ll be at the beach house. Nothing you see can hurt you.” He grunted. “There’s no threat to you. Do you understand?” “Yes.” “Do you see yourself in the picture?” “Yes.” “What are you doing?” “Peeing.” She made a low sound. “I don’t need to know about that. Skip to breakfast.

Bosch remembered that they had driven out to Malibu to eat breakfast at a place called Marmalade and afterward had watched the surfers at a nearby beach.

We finished breakfast and got our luggage. Susan carried my small overnight bag. I carried her big bag, and her smaller one, and the one that contained her makeup, and one she referred to as the big poofy one, and a large straw hat she had worn to the beach, which didn’t fit into anything. “Why don’t you get a bellman,” Susan said.

I’d just turned back to window-covering when a hand landed on my shoulder. Alycia’s father, the one with the goatee and Tinder date. “Uh—Edie, is it?” “Eve.” Their family clearly had trouble with names. “Eva. Do you know where my daughter is?” Damn. Why me? I’d tell him about the yacht, I decided. But would I tell him about possible difficulties with its navigation? I didn’t want to implicate David. And yet. I stood there with the hammer. It felt heavy. “She didn’t choose to come back with us,” I said. His mouth hung slightly open. “I’m sorry. You mean she’s still down there? All by herself? On the beach?” Beside me, Sukey stopped hammering also. “She sailed for Newport,” said Sukey, blunt as always. “On a yacht called the Cobra. Owned by a venture capitalist.” “Ha ha! No seriously,” said the goatee father. “Seriously,” said Sukey. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” “Nope,” said Sukey, and went back to hammering. When the father turned away he seemed stunned. Then the gynecologist mother came down the steps from the breakfast room. “They’re saying it’s a Cat 4. Winds up to 140!” “All this hysteria’s for nothing,” said the short father. (Low’s, I recalled with a surge of satisfaction.) He was holding a beer bottle. Hadn’t lifted a finger to help cover the windows, just watched and critiqued. “You’ll see.” Another mother stuck her head out the door. “Hey. Where’s Alycia?” Not again. I sighed. “On a yacht headed for Rhode Island,” I said. “They’ve got excellent food on that boat,” piped up Dee. “The chef used to work at Chez Panisse.” I opted not to look at the mother’s face right then. Everyone knew Alycia didn’t eat.

The beautiful thing about Jesus is that He meets us in the ordinariness of life. He meets us where we are, not where we should be. He meets us in the loneliness of our Friday nights as we polish off another season on Netflix. He meets us in the lingering marital fights that push past the weekend into Monday, Tuesday morning. He meets us in the awkwardness that is our families and the difficulty that can be our children. He meets us, too, in the very places we most hate ourselves and wish we could be anyone else. Jesus pursues us, reaches out for us, not in the extraordinary moments of life, but the most ordinary ones, like a simple breakfast with tired, hungry friends on the beach.

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It was worth it to have that first shot of Whiskey, to eat breakfast burritos on the beach and make stupid promises we wouldn’t keep.

I don’t really see how it could ever be a bad thing, being able to afford three nights in a place like this . . . where all you need to think about is whether to go to the pool or beach, what to eat for breakfast. Rich people problems. Ruby says they manage to make everything into a drama because when you have no real difficulty in your life you end up creating your own.

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