We were lying on the beach on a balmy August day, trying to soak up the remainder of a summer that had, as usual, passed too quickly.

It occurred to me that grandpa might like to join us, for although he was living just five minutes away, he had not yet gone down to the beach. His legs unsteady and eyesight poor, he preferred to remain on the boardwalk with the others, watching the joggers and cyclists whiz by, their youth freeing them to enjoy the summer. But as Max had always loved the beach, dad and I decided to drive over to the hotel to see if he would like to join us.

We parked the car, and as we approached the ramp to the boardwalk we saw a stooped figure sitting on a low stone ledge behind the hotel.

It was Max, dressed in lightweight slacks and sportshirt, his straw hat low on his forehead. We approached him silently so as not to confuse him, but upon reaching him extended our greetings. It was an awkward moment of recognition for him, his startled expression quickly melting into one of dispassionate interest. He was waiting for the bus that would take him to the hospital where his old friend, Barney, lay dying. With somewhat of a smirk on his face, he made an off-hand remark about senior citizens paying half-price for the bus, flipping the quarter slowly in his hand.

We asked him to come to the beach with us, buoyantly extolling the virtues of the sand and ocean and reminding him of his love for the water. There were lots of people around, and mom was there, and a cool breeze was rolling off the waves. It would certainly be more pleasant to spend the afternoon at the beach than to sit at the bedside of one who could no longer recognize him, who could no longer even speak. Max resisted for awhile; it was his duty, after all, to see the man with whom he had worked for so many years one last time. But we could sense that he really did not want to go, and he let our arguments persuade him to join us. I waited outside while dad helped him change into the bathing suit that hadn't been worn in months, and the three of us drove the short distance back to the beach.

Max reacted to the beach like a kid feeling the sand for the first time. But unlike the child, Max's sensations were enlivened by a flood of memories of this beach – interminable family gatherings and the requisite bar-b-ques in someone's backyard. It had truly been a long time, but Max's memory was acute, and we talked of people whose lives had since undergone changes as radical as his own.

Later dad and I convinced Max to try the water out. The waves were fairly small, but active enough so that we held Max's elbows as he gingerly stepped into the ocean. We advanced a few feet, just enough to allow the waves to crash up against his legs and wet his bathing suit. A squeal of delight came out of him, followed by a true Max Leavitt belly-laugh as he teetered back and forth, although somewhat unsteadily. He was so exhilarated to be with us amidst the joyful noises and sights of humanity.

Refreshed, we went back to the blanket, and Max began to talk about his life.