I imagine he did.
Knowing our hearts, our zeal for perfection, sitting around the fire, picking up one of the cool stones misted with seawater, contemplating, harboring, a love like we’ve never known.
Peter independently giving all his loins to pull the pregnant net out of the boat, slipping and jumping up just as fast, fish now floundering underfoot, looking around to see if anyone saw. John trying to hold back all that wanted to let loose, out of charity, of course, being the one He loved.
Then, permeating the air and the fabric of humanity, eternity, rolls the thunder of infectious laughter.
Peter freezes, unlike the waves of seawater and laughter rising up from the banks. With his ego in the crucible, he gives thanks for the comedic and buffering moments of this rough-trodden life and brings an assemblage of musht over to the fire for the fellas.
Patting Peter on the back, he looked at John, and a quiet appreciation fell over their contented faces.