It was one of my earliest memories—my father lifting me from the waves, teaching me which ones to jump over and which to dive under, so I wouldn’t get knocked down. Trusting his arms would be there to pull me up if it got too rough. Those three seconds of tumult, tossed upside down and under, before he yanked me out, calling me his little fish on the line, and held me coughing against his chest. Salt-stung and rashed by sand, but saved. I would never be that young again.
