There is a mercenary trend infecting the most pleasant of events. Simple group bike rides are "organized" into fundraisers, a magnificent gathering of hot air balloons has corporate logos plastered on every airborne surface, a traditional horserace becomes a vehicle for a major credit card company. Anywhere a group gathers to do something fun, someone else is there to turn it into a thing-a-thon for money. Not so flying a kite. Any dork can fly a kite. We know because we did it, nary a corporate sponsor in sight.

Held annually on the 26 mile stretch of Long Beach, Washington, the International Kite Festival is beholden to no one. You don't have to pay to get in, you can bring your own little trash bag kite and fly it on a spool of fishing line amid the behemoths, and everyone is welcome. A midway of booths and concessions is equally homespun; you can buy a kite, get your soul saved, have some lemonade, water your dog, buy a commemorative pin, and chat with the friendliest people anywhere.

Don't think the Kite Festival doesn't take fun seriously. The festival choreographs mass-ascents by kite category - flat kites, figure kites, Rokkakus, cellular kites, soft kites, deltas, stunt kites, trains, traditional kites, arch trains and ribbons, and multi-line figure kites. There are sails and beachball bobbly things on sticks, and competitive fighting kites dashing at other kites like territorial hummingbirds.

John and I arrive at the end of the week with John's tennis ball-obsessed beagle Cedric, and some camping gear. Everywhere we turn, the sky is filled with color. We are in time for the wind-sock competition. Wind-socks, my butt. You could unleash these things to the Macy's parade and fit right in. Speaking of fitting in, we buy a little parafoil at the kite booth and run down to the beach to watch a man unroll his creation, a scorpion thing which he fluffs some air into and lets go. It joins a slowly spinning wheel and other figures. There's nothing to do but marvel and feel the steady sea breeze. The spinning wheel is my favorite so far, idly skimming the sand.

We dodge the taut kite lines and try out our little parafoil. It has no sticks or spars, and just pops out of the bag with a reel of string. There's not enough wind and so we run, we throw, we jerk on the string, and ultimately end up bonking the dog with it a few times. Still, we're having a marvellous time. We notice how the "pros" do it - down the beach someone has a lawn chair, a boombox, a cooler, and a colossal kite train flying next to him. None of that running and bonking stuff for them. The kite strings and arches carry a hundred kites to grand heights where they find enough wind to stay up.

One could fly a kite for the better part of a day, but eventually Cedric's tennis ball gets too much sand stuck to it and we have to go for water. In the town of Long Beach the kite shops and restaurants stay open late, and everyone waits for the fireworks.

The next day we head home and in the town of Raymond we stop at the MacDonald's. We throw our tent fly over a hedge to dry, and the wind picks it up... finally, wind strong enough for the kite! We unfurl the little parafoil and it flies up and up, beyond the golden arches, just as it was meant to....

Get Lost Magazine editor Leslie Strom now has a living room full of plastic bags and 1/8" dowels and is making the most pathetic of kites for next year. She hopes to start a new festival category.