You make your way over to a bench at the end of what is left of the boardwalk. You sit down and silently watch the surf build. It is a clear, hot day as it usually is now a days. You feel the perspiration bead up around your eyes, stinging them before dripping down and rolling across your cheeks. You lean back, listening to the sound of the sea, slowly uncovering another memory.

This time, you are with your son Tim. It's the year 2016. It is a clear sunny day, red warning flags snap in the breeze, the lifeguard towers are empty, big signs admonish people to stay out of the water. The water threatens with a viscous undertow. And yet, you and Tim gingerly make your way into the water, hand in hand. You can feel the rip current tugging at your ankles, then your knees. It is up to your sons hips, and then his shoulders. You let go of his hand for just a second, and suddenly his is ripped away by the current. He is rocketed out to sea. Panic seizes you as you watch his figure become smaller as he heads further out. You immediately dive under and start swimming. You feel the water slow in around you, pulling you out. As you swim you loose sight of anything but the chops and the swells of the ocean until you stop Tim. Finally, you reach him, as he is still struggling with the riptide. He is about to go under as you reach out and grab him in your arms. He goes limp.

You know better to fight the undertow so you swim parallel to the shore. You swim on for what seems like miles, and who knows, at this point it could be. After nearly an hour, you make it back on to the beach and collapse on the sand. You lay there in the sand for a long time.

Next time, pay attention to the warning signs.

You are suddenly jolted out of this memory. Was that a noise? It couldn't be. This place had been picked clean for a decade now. The tides regularly overran all but the highest areas, and the story ravaged those.