It was there, one day when I was eleven, that I was nearly dragged out to sea by a wave. I was holding my mother’s hand; it was August. In those days I wasn’t familiar with the currents, and I didn’t appreciate their strength. But as we walked along the beach, letting the waves splash around our ankles, one of them dragged me out. My mother grabbed my leg, and we both skidded on the shingle until it let us go. Afterwards we sat and cried a bit. Grazes on our legs, blood. My mother was clutching my hand and wouldn’t let go. Since then I’ve called them Valkyrie waves, the kind that rove in from
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