On the last day of our vacation I began my morning walk along Del Mar Beach near the south boundary of this large Marine Corps installation. The sun, a hand width above hills to the east, rose into a pale, baby-blanket-blue sky.
Ahead of me a small group of people gathered just above the surf. As I approached six men waded into the water and turned, forming a single line with the ocean to their backs. They wore brown Marine-Corps-issue T-shirts above dark shorts. Breaking waves lapped at their upper thighs.
Two other men stepped onto the damp sand facing the squad. Behind them a Marine in cammies stood with a camera. I guessed her to be an official photographer.
Several feet farther up the beach a beautiful, immaculately dressed young woman watched with obvious pride.
At the water's edge the six-man squad came to attention. I was too far away to hear orders given, but one Marine broke ranks and stepped front and center. He saluted and after the salute was returned he raised his right hand. One of the men before him read from an official looking document.
The Marine with the camera took pictures from several angles.
After the young man returned to ranks I approached the woman in civilian dress and asked if this was a reenlistment. She said it was.
"First time?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied. "This is the way he wanted it."
"It's an impressive ceremony," I told her.
As I trudged along the beach my thoughts were upon how much we owe to our men and women in uniform who volunteer, often not once but multiple times, to accept the risks of war--the risks of being maimed or killed. America remains free because of them and those who preceeded them.
Upon thinking back, I should have asked the woman if the Marine was her husband, as I suspected he was. I should have said, "May the Lord bless and keep him safe." I should have said, "God bless both of you."
While I failed to say it, they were in my prayers that evening and other evenings to come.