The water was a silver-azure, sometimes made golden by the sands underneath, with waves crowned with the purest white. They rolled in three, four at a time. Surfers waited patiently for the next good swell, forming a queue only they could see. Families, couples, other children walked by, serving only as a challenge to work around.
Any ol sucker could play Catch. But to play on the sand, dodging these living obstacles, fanfared by the ocean itself, this was the peak of the game.
The simple objectives of throw and catch lasted only long enough to confirm their abilities. A formality. The real objective of Catch was to not to send the ball but to keep it. Everyone knew that. By some unspoken understanding the competition started.
Toss, upwards, not forwards. Catch. Keep. Dodge your opponent. The younger one might be smaller, but he’s quick. The older uses his size to his advantage, throwing the other to the sand, something they couldn’t do at home. The ground was soft here. Good for wrestling.
Sand sprayed away from the two and onlookers smiled. After a tussle the two stop for a moment to look around, furtively hoping to catch a glimpse of girls nearby bold enough to uncover themselves. One begins to giggle again and the rout begins anew. Soon the ball has been all but forgotten and the focus shifts to increasingly innovative wrestling moves. They have a whole beach to entertain after all.
Suddenly, the ball is loose. The breeze moves it far enough for it to be picked up and used as a projectile. Which is then caught.

The pattern repeats itself until the call of a distant mother who’s had enough wind for one day.