The little boy was crouched at the edge of the sand, his short blond hair blowing in the breeze. His eyes were fixed on the water in front of him, and he seemed so small compared to the size of the waves crashing on the beach.

He was digging in the sand, throwing some from time to time, until his mother’s voice called out to him.

“Don’t throw the sand,” she said. “You’ll get some in your eyes. And don’t get too close to the water.”

The boy’s shoulders dropped a little, and he refocused his gaze out on the endless horizon. I could practically feel his wistfulness from 25 feet away.

We were in Gulf Shores, Ala., a popular summer getaway, for our annual vacation where my favorite pastime is sitting on the beach and watching people.

Over the course of a day, I see all kinds of people – pre-teenage girls wearing bikinis for the first time followed by admiring pre-teen boys whose voices have not quite changed to a deeper timber.

There’s the old timers – their skin’s tanned to a deep mahogany, their well-worn T-shirts supporting either the University of Alabama or Auburn University. They stroll down the beach, often stopping to pick up trash or a beautiful seashell.

There’s the power walkers – they come running down the beach, a Walk-man firmly attached to their ears, and they seldom look at the beauty of the gulf. Their eyes are affixed on their stride and getting around slow pokes.

But I’m always drawn to the families, especially those with rambunctious young boys, as they remind me of when we visited Gulf Shores as a family.

These boys, like mine, love nothing more than running into the waves, stopping when one threatens to come too near, and then trying to beat the crest back to the shore, their laughter carried on the wind.

That’s why I was watching that little boy at the edge of the water. He wanted to go out into the water, but the responsibility of listening to his mother outweighed his desire.

All of a sudden, his father scooped him up. The little boy’s face lit up, and he put his arm around his father’s neck. The dad hugged him close, and the two waded out into the water.

The first wave crashed over them, but the dad held his ground and the little boy’s grip grew tighter. When they turned around, that youngster was drenched, but I could see the smile on their faces from where I was sitting.

Another wave came by, and the two jumped into the white froth, both of them shaking off the water and howling with laughter.

After a while, the dad waded toward the shore where the waves were calm, but the little boy never loosened his grip on his dad’s neck.

His father put him down on the sand, and that youngster looked up at him, grinning from ear to ear.

“That sure was fun wasn’t it, Dad,” he said, his voice carrying on the wind.

The dad crouched down, looked his boy straight in the face and smiled.

“Want to go again?” he said, and his son jumped up into his dad’s arms and out they went.

When people go to the beach, they often find beauty in the shells lying on the sand.

Others find wonder in the reds and violets as the sun sets over the horizon or in the gracefulness of a seagull soaring over the waves.

I found trust in a little boy’s eyes as his father took him on an adventure.

That’s one for the memory books.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.