Stop.

Anyway, my son talked and fished as I became strangely tuned into the fact that I did not have a headache, that I wasn't hungry or thirsty, that a cool breeze was in my face and that I had nothing in particular pressing my schedule. There was nowhere I had to be . . . no one I needed to call. As I look back, it was indeed a peculiar moment that only foreshadowed the moment that was about to change me forever.

Austin went on about how he tied the hook on his line. He told me that the bait was squid and that if he didn't wash his hands, he would be able to let the kids in his class smell it tomorrow. He laughed and so did I.

After a few minutes of not catching anything, he said, "The reason I like to fish is because when everything is calm and quiet, your whole self is full of hoping. And whether you catch anything or not, you still get to hope. It's a great feeling isn't it? Hope, I mean. It's next best to excitement."

I agreed that it was.

The sun was sinking low over the water when he said, "Dad? Let’s throw the football."

"Okay," I answered and eased out of the swing as my boy ran past me, rushing to get the ball, his feet hammering on the old boards of the dock.

"Stand over there," he directed as I moved onto the beach, "and I'll stand here. That way the sun won't be in either of our faces."

For a few minutes we passed back and forth in silence. Then, he said, "I'm going long."

"Go!" I answered and he turned, running hard and away as I arched the ball high into the air. It spiraled perfectly, hanging that tiny bit at the top of its flight and then settling softly over my son's left shoulder as he caught it and fell dramatically onto the sand.

"Touchdown!" he yelled. "Touchdown!"

He was laying on the beach, but sat up as I stepped toward him and motioned for the ball. Smiling, he held his hand out and said, "Dad! Stop!"

I did.

"Do you see?" he asked.

I raised my eyebrows and quickly looked around. "What?" I replied.

"Look!" he insisted as he got to his feet and came closer. He grinned widely and I chuckled as I noticed the gap where his two front teeth used to be. "Dad, don't you see?" he said again and I shook my head, mystified. No, I told my boy, I did not see.

He took my right hand in both of his. "Well," he began, "think about it . . . The sun went down so it's not in anybody's eyes, but it is still light enough to throw the football. The sand is soft enough to fall on and the temperature is not too hot and it’s not too cold." He shrugged. "And it’s just you and me here together." Pausing, he looked at me earnestly. "Dad," he said, "it’s just perfect."

And it was.

As I sit here today in what the world calls the "middle age" years of my life, it occurs to me that I have existed for decades on this planet. And I have managed to notice every cross word or disappointed glance tossed my way.

I have noticed every hurricane that forms in the Caribbean . . . every fire and earthquake and tornado. I have slowed down to see wrecks on the highway.

I see every bill that comes in the mail. I mark every flight that is delayed. I even see the spot on the fender of my car that was missed when it was washed.

I have paid attention to things that weren't true. I have spent time on things with no lasting significance. And I have worried about things that never happened.

Oh God, how many moments have I missed that were just perfect?

I want to live a happy life . . . one for which I am grateful and cognizant of time well spent. From this day forward, I want to notice the joy on a child's face, not the chocolate he left on the couch.

I want to notice clean sheets, a roof over my head, and the fact that I have enough to eat. I want to see opportunities to help or to teach and be grateful for my life.

And though I will continue to question and grow and struggle and learn, I know now that I must never again let a special moment pass without acknowledging, at least to myself, that "Wow! This is just perfect!"

Your Friend,

Andy Andrews