One Sunday I just lie on my back on the beach at Golden Gardens watching a man and a boy fly a kite together. My job is to watch.

Occasionally wiping the sand from my elbows I keep my face pointed in their direction. Given the distance and dark glasses I may only appear to be observing them, but why would they doubt me? I'm the designated audience for their dance, one "Big" and one "Little" in the common parlance of King County Big Brothers/Little Brothers program.

Martin and Miguel. Big M and Little M flying a kite on their last outing before Miguel leaves for El Salvador. His first visit ever to the country where everyone in his family was born.

I'd grabbed water and dried fruit, sunglasses and sunscreen - nothing else. No book. No phone. It's rare that I am without something to occupy myself, or rather to distract myself from paying attention to my surroundings, cloud formations, other kites in the sky, sand on my elbows and the outlines of Martin and Miguel flying their trick kite.

"Man down! Man down!" Miguel yells, waving his arms when the kite dives into the rocky shoreline of low tide. As Martin slowly untangles the line and prepares the kite to launch again Miguel wiggles his hips teasing Martin as though taunting a bull to chase him. "Peggy," he calls. "Don't you want to fly it?"

I shake my head no, not attempting to yell with the breeze taking my words directly away from them, back towards the Bathhouse and the train tracks, the volley ball games and picnic shelters. I've been on picnics and bike rides with them, seen Miguel sent out freshly scrubbed by his mother and even watched him stand up for perfect attendance at a school assembly. I've watched Miguel roll down the slope at the Locks, then stand staggering in disequilibrium, but I've never watched Martin and Miguel at play together.

Couples and families pick their way past my head as though I'm on the official Golden Gardens beach trail. Holding the strings in each hand, Miguel sends the kite shooting straight up and then twists it left, right, buzzes it near me like a balloon losing all its air in one go.

A line of sailboats motor back into Shilshole as though due back on the hour, a freighter passes in the distance, containers stacked impossibly high.

"Sure you don't want to fly it?" they both coax and I realize it's time to give slightly more of myself, mere presence no longer enough.

"You'll have to teach me," I tell Miguel. Is it wrong to wish that he'll stay 11 years old, enthusiastic about everything? He demonstrates how to hold each guideline in my hands, explains I need to lift both arms up then pull down sharply. The kite shoots straight up in the air. I'm so surprised I forget the instructions and thrash my arms in a mirror of the kite.

"Keep your arms parallel," Miguel calls, "when it's in the air, just let it pull your arms." At least 100 feet of string away Martin is coaching Miguel on how to best coach me. The kite goes straight up and flies for 30 seconds. Plunges nose down. Up again for 30 seconds, long enough for me to try make it turn a bit. Then it rams into the sand. Miguel jumps up and down and side to side. "Yes!"

"Count for me," I say, "so we can see if I'm getting better." As he counts dutifully in fast seconds, the kite finally flies. The sun is at the same angle as the kite's highest point - to see the kite you have to look at the sun in a way that you're never supposed to attempt. I close my eyes; if I wasn't accustomed to sight I would be good at this. With eyes closed the lines pull as though I'm fishing and there's been a nibble, but my bite is just an air current. It's over two minutes but Miguel is still counting. I should have had him time my failures, not my first success.

The kite plummets but they cheer for me, want me to do it again and again, make it swoop, make it soar. I watch the kite's shadow as it darts across the sand, in the air it looks smooth but its shadow is so jerky.

The El Salvador visit has come up suddenly; Miguel will fly to Houston in just three days, then over Mexico to San Salvador he tells us as though he will be able to see all of Mexico from above. There wasn't enough time to plan anything special for this last outing until September, but maybe it's for the best. They've been wanting to fly their big kite. The sun's out and there's a good breeze; it's perfect day.

They were matched almost two years ago now, or is it already three? On the way back to the house Miguel tells me about the spirits that haunt the house where his grandfather lives. He wants to show me the town on an atlas, better yet on the computer; perhaps he can show me his brother's house.

He and Martin jostle each other, absented-mindedly pursuing an endless game of tag. Martin may be the "Big" but it is going to be a long summer without the "Little." Miguel casts a shadow much longer than he is tall.