Surging, stormless sea. Shore break in the brush. Sunset surfer swept away. Sirens, three, unfurling as we rinse sand at the trailhead. My hands a vise around my daughter so she can’t watch the muscular woman astride a limp man. Compressing his chest. Competing, the urge to turn her towards this pageantry of rescue and role reversal. The first ocean was ambivalence. The light less pink. Less. And less.