On the white sand, you wait for the fireworks. Shirahama in southern Wakayama has one of the most beautiful beaches in Japan—a long crescent of pale sand—and on a summer evening, swimmers simply stay where they are, settling onto the beach as the light fades, waiting for the sky to begin. The sea by day, the fireworks by night: a resort day brought to its close by fire. The light falls across the dark water, and the crowd lines the shore right down to where the waves break. Shirahama has hot springs too, and the ocean, and now the fireworks—the whole machinery of a Japanese summer holiday, assembled in one place. There is something uncomplicated about it, and that is the pleasure. No solemn history, no competition being judged, no thousand-year ritual. Just the white sand underneath you, the black sea in front of you, and the wait for the first shell to climb into the night. To sit on that pale beach in the warm dark, salt still drying on your skin, watching the sky for the fire to begin—that, all by itself, is already summer.