That’s the plan. I’m not sure whether Joy is woken by excitement or the alarm on her phone, but she is already dressed when I crack open an eye. After she kisses me goodbye and leaves the room, I try to go back to sleep. But my mind has jump-started and is racing on a track crammed with thoughts. Jack, my parentage, new info on Elizabeth, Anne pregnant—had I expected any of this when I left New York? No. But here it is.

Craving a little immersion in what has always steadied me, I pull on my Bay Bluff sweatshirt, grab my Nikon, and, with no sign Dad is up yet, I go to the beach. I do leave a note on the kitchen table, though whether he’ll notice it or even be able to read it is up for grabs. I would be safer waiting for him inside. But my memories are vivid. The beach at dawn is too special to miss.

Sunrise is different from sunset, a crescendo in the day’s symphony, rather than its denouement, and our eastern exposure is prime. I’m not discouraged by narrow strips of clouds between me and the sun. Their purples and pinks are dramatic.

While the ocean gently gathers, rolls, and retreats, I photograph the scene in thirds—beach, water, and sky—then in simple halves of sky and waves. Avoiding the two boats, which introduce elements I don’t want, I stretch out on my stomach on the dewy dock and, putting the camera on the wood, photograph its narrowing arm reaching into the brightening horizon.

Sunrise comes fast. I’m always amazed at that, but then, when I’m engrossed, I lose track of time.

Elbows on the wood, I turn my head the smallest bit. East-facing windows on the Sabathian house reflect the rising sun. Ours must be, too. But Jack isn’t in our house. He’s in his, likely in bed.

Unable to resist, I take a picture, just one, though whether it will bring pleasure or pain once I’m back in New York is up for grabs.

Back on the beach, I shoot the wrack line with its new offerings, singling out several shells and a length of kelp. The light has blossomed into a fragile yellow when I see my father making his cautious way down the stairs. He looks typically Tom Aldiss, meaning too formal in his button-down and khakis. His silver hair, though thinner than it used to be, barely blows. For each normal step he takes, on the next he places one shoe first, then the other beside it, like a very young child.

Straightening from the surf, I smile and wave. He doesn’t smile, but he does lift his cast in greeting. We meet at the bottom of the stairs, where he promptly heads for one of the beach chairs. Sinking into it, he is winded.