"Nana, let's go fly a kite."

"Are you crazy?"

My grandson batted his baby blues. "March is the windy month of the year," he told me. As if I didn't know. I used to decorate my classroom's bulletin boards with fat clouds puffing air through pursed lips along with symbolic kites the pupils made from colored construction paper and yarn.

"It's not March yet," I hedged, revolted by the idea of going outside. I'm strictly an indoor sport person.

"But it's windy today, Nana."

He was right. El Nino was outside blasting Florida with thirty mile per hour gusts. I shuddered visualizing what the wind would do to my perfectly coiffed hair.

"Do you know how to fly a kite?" he asked.

"No." A one word reprieve. Surely he wouldn't want to go with an ignoramus.

Can I teach you?"

The baby blues won. How could I refuse his offer?

At the kite store, he told me his friends made their own kites from balsa wood and paper. They were diamond shaped and carried a tail of string with attached bows of discarded ribbon. I didn't have any kite making materials so I found myself surrounded by a bewildering display of paper and plastic in different designs. All of them were packed flat and I didn't have a clue as to what to pick.

Fortunately, the store's owner was kind; he unwrapped a few and flew them outside in his parking lot. The box kite was aerodynamic but looked clumsy to me whereas the one shaped like a windsock was a delight to behold. It reminded me of an airborne octopus as it soared overhead trailing it multicolored streamers. I chose that one.

My grandson opted for animal shapes. I watched while he observed a bat, pterodactyl and butterfly. There was even a gull kite so realistic that for an instant, I thought I was looking at a living bird. He settled on the ugly black bat. Just like a man.

We went to the beach and after listening to his careful instructions, I launched my pretty octopus into the sky.

After fifteen minutes, my grandson said, "You're doing great, Nana," and moved away to fly his bat. His words were lost on me; my eyes were riveted on the thing overhead. As I maneuvered my fragile paper prop higher and higher, I felt a rush of triumph. I was the pilot of an improbable plane winging above the earth. For an instant I felt one with the kite as it skittered along the air currents. I was defying gravity! It was a heady experience; a psychological high. A definite plus, I thought, for kite flying.

After a while I anchored my kite line to the sand with a rock and sat down to observe the other flyers on the beach. I was surprised at the sociological aspects of the sport. People tend to raise their offerings to the wind in groups; friends with friends or parents with children. All of them laughed and chattered as they bragged about their successes or explained the intricacies of weighting a kite's tail. Not a dour face among them. And when a kite crashed, even the failure was overlooked by those who shared their space. Everyone groaned and offered advice to the hapless person. I suddenly realized kite flying binds humanity together.

An hour had passed and my grandson was just a speck in the distance. Not wishing to reel him in yet along with his kite, I leaned back in the sand on my elbows. My octopus was still bobbing bravely among the clouds so I turned my attention to the scenery. Unexpectedly, I felt my soul stir as I surveyed the vast blue sky, the crashing surf, and the white sand. My eyes were drawn to the creatures at my feet who shared the planet with me; the sandpipers racing the waves on miniature legs, hermit crabs who stared with curious eyes from their holes, the periwinkles, tiniest of all, washing in and out like jewels in the sand. I marveled at the beauty of Nature and my mind transcended mortality. For a little while, I contemplated the divine order of design. I found spiritual solace in that space of time and felt comforted.

My grandson came jogging back, his bat trailing after him in the sand.

What happened?" I asked, looking at the twisted wings.

"It crashed and broke."

"I'm so sorry," I said. "You want to fly my octopus?"

He shrugged. "Nah. We can fix the bat tonight."

And then those baby blues eyed me with curiousity. "How do you feel, Nana?"

"Just great," I replied and realized I meant it. My ruined hairdo didn't matter anymore. For over two hours I'd filled my lungs with fresh sea air and allowed the wind to redden my cheeks. The few times I'd had to chase and retrieve my kite had strengthened my stamina. I felt rejuvenated. Kite flying was like a soft aerobic exercise suited to either the young or the old.

"Do you like flying a kite?" he asked.

"Absolutely."

Four days later, my grandson went back to Texas with his mother and sister. Before he left, however, he fixed the bat and presented it to me.

"For you, Nana," he said. "Fly it for me."

So now it's March and the wind awaits.

This weekend, if it doesn't rain, I'll be at the beach launching a bandaged black bat into the wind.

Maybe I'll see you there.

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