The beach is a strange cathedral. No stained glass, no hymns, just gray sand, raw wind, and the Pacific chewing at the edge of the world. Out here, the noise falls away and what’s left are the things that actually matter.

My wife crouched in the grit, steadying our boy’s hands around the reel of a kite line. His eyes chased the string skyward with the seriousness of a prophet glimpsing something holy in the clouds. She pointed, he believed. That’s the whole damn blueprint for life right there, trust passed down in small, unspoken moments.

Then came the grin. That wild, unfiltered joy blasting out of him like dynamite. The kind only a child can summon, standing barefoot in the sand in his orange hoodie, laughing at the taste of salt air and the weight of nothing but the present. No stock market, no headlines, no hollow speeches. Just a boy, a kite, and the woman I love showing him the ropes.

And in motion, pure joy, a scrap of seaweed in his hand, the world reduced to what’s real: laughter, touch, the sight of someone you love smiling because you showed them the sky. That’s the antidote to the sickness of our age. Not cars, not houses, not politicians yammering about progress. Just this: a family, a moment, and the impossible flight of a kite tugging at heaven.

Hunter once said, “Buy the ticket, take the ride.” This is the ride. My wife, my son, and a piece of string pulling us all higher than the noise ever could.