As a child, we used to go to the beach at my grandparents' bungalow in The Highlands, New Jersey, every summer (and spent a lot of time there even after Mom and Dad had rented our own bungalow) in the same colony. I didn't realize at the time that was paradise and when I did, it was too late to return.
I'd stand on the strand with Grampy and he'd have us wave to people I never saw in Europe, on the other side of the ocean. He assured me they saw us and were waving back. I believed him; he was Grampy. It wasn't unusual while we were scampering or swimming (wading out into the ocean a couple of feet while adults fretted about the Undertow) to see someone fishing from the long pier that separated our beach from the next one over.
Sometimes as we watched the fisherman would catch something and one day the fisherman was my dad and the something he hooked was a small shark, about eighteen inches long, though much longer in my memory.
It was terrifying; at least as terrifying as this is. Which reminds me, as Frank Zappa might say, don't forget to floss.
-bill kenny
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