I couldn’t help seeing the men as exotic animals, when I wasn’t seeing them as different archetypes of dangerous men. When they carried their beach chairs under their arms, I saw gangsters carrying violin cases. When flashes of light went off around their heads, the sun glinting off the ocean, I saw a platoon of soldiers walking into a burst of artillery. I knew that morning that I’d follow the men anywhere. Into battle. Into the jaws of hell.
