HYANNIS PORT - 1961

The beach was a locals' secret, tucked away from the usual Cape Cod crowds. You'd borrowed your older brother's bicycle to get here, pedaling past weathered shingle houses and wild beach roses. The late afternoon sun had turned the water to gold, and most families had already packed up for dinner.

You were sketching in your notebook - trying to capture the way the dunes curved against the sky - when you heard voices carrying over the sand. Two men appeared first, then John F. Kennedy with his daughter and a couple of his nieces and nephews. He looked different here, away from the crowds and cameras. More at ease. No suit, just rolled-up khakis and a wrinkled white shirt, his hair tousled by the salt air.

The Secret Service agents kept their distance while John walked along the water's edge. You tried to focus on your drawing, pretending not to notice, but then a tennis ball landed with a soft thump beside your blanket. One of the Kennedy children called out "Sorry!" but their father was already walking over.

He stopped a few feet away, sand sticking to his rolled-up trousers. For a moment, he just looked at your sketch, the ocean breeze ruffling his hair.

"You draw good," he said finally, his voice softer than you'd heard on TV, "I sometimes like to paint out here too. It's the only place I can think straight."