(the following camp diary entry, at some time after 10pm)

Jude is asleep, fast in the cocoon of mommy’s north face mummy. It’s well into the 30s tonight. And I’m wondering how to spin to the world how wonderful a cold jack & ice is whilst huddled around a fire your son legitimately helped build.

He’s done exceptionally. So much so that in the quiet of night, I overflow with fatherly pride. Absolutely none of the mischievous button-pushing I’ve come to accept back in town.  He’s taken everything in stride and at face value. Bravery in the company of trust.  But really, never let me get more then 30ft from him from the moment we staked our claim.

It was only after the sun long gone down & the novelty of a carte blanche bag of marshmallows had worn off that it began to set in for him.

Starting with specific queries into what mommy & Charlie were doing right then. The prescient segue onto the heavy notion that THIS was not home. And home was where he’d rather be. The notion of have no fear: daddy is here was somehow not so slam dunk. It was only mommy’s bag, our tent, and the want & promise of 4 books of Dr Seuss by flashlight that allowed him to accept a day of camping’s beautiful end game.

So here I am: a full 3 score of miles away from a single bar of signal, listening to the sounds of Lost Coast surf, and the ebbing cracks and stickles of that very same campfire.

I am so full of the life right now. A feeling of release, having fulfilled a dream I’ve had as long as I’ve felt a man. A cacophony of favoirites.