It’s the first barbecue of summer. A small group of friends are gathered on a Thimble Island. We’re having Jamaican jerk chicken, punch with coconut rum, and Key lime cupcakes. The wind is low and the sun begins a languid descent toward the horizon. Jimmy Buffet sings about his “schoolboy heart” as Kitchen B flips chicken pieces on the grill.

For the first time in a long time I’m not thinking about anything. I’m being summer lazy on a deck chair that creaks against the stones when I sit up to sip at my drink.

There’s dinner, dancing, and long conversation. The Sound surrounds us on three sides, flawlessly smooth. “This is why I live in this area,” I’m saying to no one in particular.

A fire pit is stuffed with newspapers and logs, and when the sun is gone and the temperature drops, we all put on long sleeves and hover around the flames. Our voices echo off the stone walls of the patio.

Aquaman is talking about his latest misadventure with a member of the female species.

“She just cared about what I have,” he says.

“She just cared about what you have?” asks Island Girl. “I don’t understand.”

“Yeah, it’s all about what I have,” Aquaman answers.

“Well, what do you mean by that?”

Aquaman shifts in his seat and shrugs a little.

“You know, my bank account, my insurance, they always want to know about that stuff.”

So far I’ve been quietly listening to the conversation and mostly watching the fire. At this point, though, I have to step in.

“Okay, really? When I meet a guy, the last thing I’m thinking about is his insurance!” I say.

“Who are these women?” Island Girl wants to know. “They must be aliens from another planet!”

“Or they’re transplants from 1956. Maybe they’re time travelers,” I answer before Aquaman has a chance to answer himself.

“They’re just...I don’t know. They’re just...around,” Aquaman replies.

He’s put his drink down and is waving his hands around in an I-don’t-know type gesture as if he can’t begin to find the words to explain what’s going on.

“He attracts that kind of woman, he really does,” Kitchen B says, backing his friend Aqua up.

I can’t resist making a joke, so I lean in and say in a husky voice, “So, how big is your policy, Aquaman? Is it...comprehensive?”

“You’re dating the wrong women,” Island Girl tells him, shaking her head.

True that.

The conversation moves on at a leisurely pace to other topics. I watch the stars begin to pop in the sky like pinpricks through an ebony awning.

There’s a picture of Marilyn Monroe that I saw once and I don’t even remember where I saw it. She’s in someone’s house with a small gathering of friends. It’s a candid shot, not posed or overdone. She’s sitting on a couch with a slow sweet smile that you can tell has just spread across her face like hot butter on toast. It’s the only picture I’ve seen of her where she looks truly happy. Thankfully, I’ve never had the life experiences that she had. She possessed a deep-down crippling sadness that I’ve never had to contend with, but in a small way, I can understand where her loneliness came from. Everybody feels like that at times—she just happened to wear it on her sleeve. In the picture, though, she is unselfconscious, relaxed. Content.

I feel like that picture at this moment. It’s dark except for the stars and the flames, and I’m sitting in the middle of a group of good friends. I am content. Another log is placed on the fire and someone says something funny that makes us all laugh.

There are shoreline moments that make you realize how lucky you are to live here. And the best part? Summer has only just started.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com.