I gaped at the size of the kindling - ossified pine logs, really - the caretakers were putting together. This was no campfire; it was a forest fire in the making. I had images of diving into the sea to escape the roaring blaze that would engulf the beach in a couple of moments’ time.

Thus began a dangerous game that started with sprinting to the fire while keeping an arm’s length distance, bearing the waves of fire as long as possible while one’s mallows and fingers blistered, and retreating once a shirt sleeve was in danger of very unspontaneous combustion. Not a whole lot of s’mores were made that night, but there were plenty of singed eyebrows and armhairs, and screams of pain and laughter in between.

After the mallow-boodle, we laid down on the beach with toes and eyes pointed at the firmament, that, away from the blaze of city lights, was quietly glowing, unnerving and independent. The mise en scène was unadulterated as a playground at recess, and we talked into the night. When our voices grew tired, we swam in the sea made a silver lake under the moon, which was full that night, and magnificent. 

It was a weekend getaway Bonnie and Clyde would have been proud of.