Ionian Beach Day late summer our skin is hot a breeze stirs the small hairs gently voices are indistinct on the uncrowded beach -- no need to raise your voice today -- on the blanket, she reads he stretches all the way in a deep nap I stride toward the blanket "Mom, Tom is floating out to sea." She throws down the book "Dave! Wake up!" and runs, kicking up sand across the beach into the surf in the distance, a young boy clutches an empty bombola discarded after some revellers used up the propane -- a great beach toy the riptide is fierce today, the warning flags are up the boy is pulled further and further out the bright blue tank and his orange hair pop in and out of sight between the waves Italian fisherman long-casting in the surf try to reach him with their lines, but he is too far. "uh, Dad, ..." he rises through soft layers of sleep towards taut and alert and runs, kicking up sand across the beach into the surf the rough surf "Rae, get back! Get back!" Her blonde hair threads the dark sea her arms thrust wildly, as she moves towards the boy on the bombola she does not turn back until he passes her. the precise, forceful strokes of an ex-lifeguard "Tom, don't let go!" propel him with speed towards the boy, then ... then, cradling him with one arm while the other pulls, sure and deliberate, now decades later she tells the story her voice tightens she is reliving her panic and her dread and his voice uncurls "I thought I was going to have to save both of you" he relives his exasperation (does it make him small? he would rather relive that than the fear he felt as he dove into the waves or the bursting relief he felt when they were safe on the blanket or the tide that never completely released him that still pulls him that on a peaceful day could drag him out to sea)