Reader,

I've begun my "summer of play" by relearning what it means to play.

With apologies to all of the other places I have lived or visited, my favorite place in the world—the landscape that I see when I envision "further up and further in"—is Ucluelet, British Columbia. Pictures don't do it justice, but I'll share some anyway.

I discovered Ucluelet ten years ago. Work might have brought me there, but the dazzling ocean is what kept me coming back. Growing up, I had no idea that my native British Columbia held such splendors. When we vacationed, we always went inland, crossing mountains and traversing deserts in search of freshwater lakes. I intellectually knew we lay beside the Pacific Ocean, but I never got to see its raw power. As anyone who's familiar with Vancouver can attest, the beaches there are mild.

That is not so on the west coast of Vancouver Island. There, waves heave and crash with thrilling power. They rival the famed beaches of Oregon and California, especially when winter storms roll in. Do you know what it's like to watch 10-metre swells crash upon the shore? I do, and it's beyond awesome.

So, what does any of this have to do with play?

Whenever I'm in Ucluelet, the pressures of work instantly fade. I may take phone calls, I may answer emails, I may even write my newsletter, but I do so with a new understanding of their (lack of) importance. After all, I'm beside the ocean, and the roar of crashing waves is audible nearly everywhere I walk. I can't think of a better way to practice being present.

Beyond that, I get lessons in play every time we're here, courtesy of the playmasters in our family.

My wife cajoles us into visiting "Secret Beach" (aka He-Tin-Kis Beach). We play on its sandbar until the tide drives us to retreat. We bask and burn in the sunlight. We snicker at the over-hydrated hikers who descend in search of a discreet spot to pee. We marvel at bald eagles and at the crows who dive-bomb the eagles.

Our daughter helps us remember all of our traditions. It is unthinkable for us to visit "Secret Beach" without a full sleeve of Oreos. We MUST visit the "Funny Store," an offhand description I gave the local gift shop when she was four. Sometimes we break with tradition, but her insistence on connecting with the past never fails to improve our time here.

Our son, the middle child, seldom forces his will, though he's learning to speak up for himself. Most of the time, he turns our choices into landscapes for his imagination. An opportunely-shaped rock becomes a Star Wars airship, tootooing rocks into the water; the hot tub is transformed into a baptismal tank. And no one can skip rocks better than he.

And then there's our youngest: a fearless boy who drives fear into his parents' pessimistic hearts as he leaps from foothold to foothold on the black jagged rocks that fill these beaches. He rolls his eyes and huffs when we tell him to come down. He's fine. Yes, we know. And yet we can't help but fear and temporarily toss aside those lessons from The Anxious Generation.

In case you can't tell, I do a lot of observing on these trips. Yes, I walk on the hikes. Yes, I alternate between boosting morale and demanding attitude improvements when spirits lag. I even climb on rocks sometimes, if only to stifle the inner voice that wants to yell "Be careful!"

But honestly, sitting and watching is my favorite thing to do. I watch the waves. I watch these people who make up the current core of my life. I watch the laughter and the fights and the sass and the love. I reading books and watching for lines to record in my commonplace book. Sometimes I even sit with a question and a blank page, keeping watch for whatever words bubble up in that moment.

All of this is play, which might be the best lesson I've had this week. The shape of play is different from person to person, and it's different for us from moment to moment. Perhaps it's what I had in mind when I suggested we should write with presence.

And on that note, excuse me. It's our last day here, and the beach is calling.

Keep your stick on the ice.

Frank.