Recently came that day when you stood again, this time facing east, committing yourselves.
Then it made sense to take a honeymoon, a short one, and one of you got a cold just beforehand, but still it became that kind of moment when you can decide, sniffles and all, to follow this guy you're committed to out into darkness to find the beach, maybe to plunge off a cliff if you misstep. But he brings a tiny flashlight and you creep down the cliff behind him and find the darkling sand and there behind you is the moon (no camera, of course, in your hand), an orange waxing crescent above the waves, which are chanting "Alle" (on the upswing) and "Luia" after the crest.
Next day, while warmth of summer's end lingers, the two of you visit the little store his grandparents ran in the 1970s,
the store you visited in early puberty, romantic pop tunes skimming your heart, tugging you to long for someone to tell you his sailor's story in all its ragin' glory.
You knew him then only as that older kid from the Hershiser family. He tried to sell you canned Oregon air. You bought a ceramic dog instead and named her Brandy.
You couldn't yet dream he would become a sailor, someday tell you his stories, and cherish you more than all the sand along the seashore. But today you know, and you're glad to follow. (And then to take a nap in the car, because you have a cold, while he skims the coastal town's antiques establishment.)