Sitting in the black BMW as it zips around the twists and turns of a sandstone canyon through the Santa Monica mountains, all I can think about is the beach ahead. Every year at this time, Malibu’s bluffs are crowned with wildflowers, the surrounding hillsides are loose with yellow stone, and the roadsides are joyfully littered with casually-parked jeeps, SUVs and VW buses carrying surfboards, parasails, and kites on their roof racks and spilling over their tailgates.
This morning, however, as sunshine ricochets around the canyon, my son and I emerge from the mountains into a morning mist that feels as though it’s a thousand years old. Wordlessly my son guides the car toward the beach, slides it into a parking space just steps from the sand, and unpacks our gear.
There are few people here. Pelicans hunt the waves in pairs, sea gulls ride currents of warm air high in the sky, and a little girl and her brother wheel and dart in and out of the surf. 
My son’s attention is caught by the mood and sound of the sea. Quickly he shoots a few pictures of what seem to be a bundle of rags on the sand near the lifeguard’s station. I join him, pulling out my own camera to shoot the morning light as it breaks through the mist, blesses the waves, and overcomes the darkness.
We learn from each other.
