I should have liked to see him in a Speedo, its bright, stretchy material outlining the roundness of each buttock and tightly molded to his package in front, anything besides those baggy gray cargo shorts hanging from his hips. True, as far as I could tell he might have had nothing to show off beneath them - their shapelessness hid the contours of his body from waist to knee. But surely his muscular calves had thighs to match, nor did that curve of his back taper off into flatness. He was wearing just the shorts. He would have looked perfect in a Speedo.

Until he appeared I was certain I had the beach to myself. I'd left the car in a scenic turnout at the crest of the hill and walked down to see the promontory from another angle. About a quarter-mile on I saw a narrow, overgrown path leading off into the bushes and followed it. It was rough going, rocky and steep, but on the spur of the moment I decided to take my chances that it did lead all the way to the beach and there'd be space to set up camp, so I went back for my gear, although it wasn't yet noon and I'd planned on driving another couple of hundred miles that day.

I pitched my tent at the foot of the cliff, on a flat shelf barely large enough to hold it some six feet above the tiny stretch of beach. I judged I'd be safe from the incoming tide since the sand below slanted steeply to the ocean. I took what stones I could that had tumbled down the cliff side to build a fire ring and went looking for more on a low rocky rise that jutted out into the water on my right.

We found ourselves face to face when he came climbing over the rise. He looked more surprised to find someone there than I. He glanced toward a spot behind me as if something worried him. I followed his eye and noticed the shirt, shoes and towel he'd left behind when he went to explore. Reassured, he nodded to me and, mindful of his bare feet, climbed slowly down the rock pile and walked on, wading ankle-deep along the shore.

He was sixteen at most, I judged, and boyishly handsome. Tow-headed, misty gray eyes, chest hairless, and the down on his forearms so fine it would have been invisible had it not caught the sun, his waist almost girlish, his flat adolescent belly contrasting with a broadness of shoulder that must have come more from exercise than from maturity - a perfect model for Speedos. I'd have loved to see him in one.

He ignored me utterly. I finished the fire ring and busied myself collecting driftwood to make coffee. The unexpected crash of a large wave, a startled "Oh shit!", and I looked up to see him waddling up the beach not twenty yards from me, his shorts soaked almost to the waistband. He walked as if he had a load in his pants.

"You'll rub yourself raw with those clinging to your thighs," I called out.

He came closer. "What choice do I have?"

"Take 'em off and spread 'em on the rocks to dry."

He blushed. "It's that I'm not wearing anything underneath."

"So? If you were you'd have to take that off too."

"I feel funny with you completely dressed and all."

"For the time being." He looked as though I'd just propositioned him, so I added, "When I finish with this I'm going for a swim."

"No suit?"

"What for?"

"And if someone shows up?"

"I can't imagine that happening, and if it does they'll just have to put up with me. I got here first, so it's my beach."

"I was here before you."

"OK, we'll call it your beach. Do I have your permission to skinny dip on your beach?"

He smiled, but kept his shorts on. The weight of the water pulled them almost off his hips, exposing the line between abdomen and the top of his legs. The hair on his head must have been sun bleached, because the topmost pubic hairs peeping over his shorts were dark, as was the line of fuzz running down from his navel. The wet garment clung to the privates that had swung so freely inside moments before. I should have liked to see him without a Speedo.

"I can't hang around here much longer. The next hostel is over forty miles away."

"You're on a bike?"

"Hid it in the bushes."

"You can't pedal in wet shorts. It'll chafe worse than walking in 'em. You've nothing else?"

He shook his head. "I ripped my riding shorts on the rocks the other day." He'd cycled down the coast alone, all the way from northern Oregon.

"I don't advise biking down the highway wrapped in a towel. You'll be less conspicuous running around bare assed here. Take my word for it."

"They'll take forever to dry. I don't like biking after dark."

"I'm making coffee. Want some? You can lug over that piece of driftwood and hang 'em by the fire." He looked uncertain. "They're not going to dry on you."

He hesitated, then self-consciously peeled off his wet shorts. Eye candy - a child's slender torso perched on a biker's legs, the fully developed genitals of a grown man crowned with a teenager's silken hairs. Had he suited up to go wading, I wouldn't have got to see him naked.

"You're looking at me."

"What else is there to look at?"

He cast his eye over the empty beach as though he might find something more worthy of my interest, then turned away and went for the driftwood.

If they didn't dry in time - they might not, after all - should I offer to share my tent? I could get him to trust me. Could I trust myself?