Making sure a fire works can have its quirks.

We are determined to host a bonfire, even as clouds, ominously swollen and dark with moisture, roll closer.

We have invited friends and relatives from near and far to gather and celebrate the summer solstice and toast marshmallows, and, by golly, we are not about to be thwarted by a few wisps in the sky.

Besides, we know the clouds will only enhance the dazzle of the sunset.

We are joined by a pal of mine who arrives in a truck, having offered an assortment of items ideal for kindling: scrap lumber, a barrel full of splinters from an old bench, a broken shipping crate and scraps of paper. He also brings an ax.

The air is moist as we lug the items across the sand on the north side of Seaside’s beach. We try to move quickly as we plod past the beach grass, select a safe spot and begin to hurriedly stomp out our would-be fire pit.

We pile the kindling and are running back to the truck for a second load of wood as the mist develops into droplets.

Suddenly, the rain falls in earnest. It pelts our necks, beads on my eyeglasses and drools across the Prom.

But we continue. The moisture has not reached the core of the pile, we reason, as we scuttle across the sand. If we just get the fire started and concentrated and blazing hot, a few drops of rain won’t matter at all, right?

And at least a few hardy Oregon souls and a few outsiders, who may not know better, probably will still show up for the fire … right?

No time to deliberate. We’ve dumped the kindling, we’ve got to get this thing going before our determination turns soggy.

We lug the remaining wood to the pile, and our brisk work and high spirits counter the effects of the storm. I crouch, preparing to pull aside the wet exterior debris like a curtain and ignite the still dry sticks and paper below.

“OK, it’s ready,” my friend says. “Matches.”

“Mmm,” I say. Instinctively I reach for my pockets even though I know I have forgotten, utterly, the most important ingredient in the relatively simple recipe for starting a fire.

Mmm. Matches. They might help a little bit in such a situation. I shrug, hands empty, and we chuckle at the folly of it all.

We tear back toward the Prom, where my better half has been waiting in the rain to greet guests. Fortunately, before we knew about the monsoon, she had thought to grab a matchbook from the kitchen.

We run a relay back to the would-be fire as if handing off the Olympic torch, a bit giddy now despite the lashing rain. Water drips off the tip of my nose as I try to shield the flimsy matchbook, tear one out and strike it.

But so much water abounds from the sky that the abrasive strip of striking material rubs right off the surface of the cardboard. Even though we are not in the frigid Alaskan tundra where our very survival might depend on starting this fire, I think of Jack London.

“We defy you,” we yell to the sky, shaking our fists in mock bravado even as the rain pours down.

My pal has a plan. Not far from here lives his mother-in-law, who is far more wise than me in the ways of the North Coast. She, of course, has readily available MAGIC FIRE STICKS, camping matches wrapped individually like bits of candy in waterproof cellophane, and he vaults to retrieve them.

The strike-anywhere matches indeed not only light when moved across the box, they explode like miniature nautical flares, hissing through the cold, damp night as if to spit in the face of adversity. The fury of Prometheus is unleashed at my fingertips.

I have removed my glasses and can see clearly now as the kindling catches flame. We chop victoriously at the old crate and add fuel to the blaze as it crackles to life.

Drenched, we laugh with abandon. Yes! The bonfire is saved, and we have done it. We may not have resorted to rubbing sticks together, but we persisted, and, by golly, we prevailed.

Just about now, of course, the rain gently subsides. The torrent quickly evaporates into an almost balmy summer night.

But the fire, steady as it devours the wood we carefully feed it while other people begin to arrive, seems better for all the work. It has been more sweetly purchased with our sweat and fortitude, and we are warm. At last, we nod, it met its match.

Brad Bolchunos, the south county reporter for The Daily Astorian, tries to tell others to be cautious near campfires where others have improperly disposed of fireworks. But he seldom is sure about what reaction such comments will spark.