Why I Hate the Sea

I remember the beach.
I remember the sand sagging under my feet, close enough to dropping me into the sea underneath it.  
I remember when my sister and I dug a hole in the sand until we reached water.
I remembered it choking on the sand before giving up and pooling in the bottom of the hole.
I remember the embarrassed ocean throwing its waves over our discovery.

I remember my father wading waist up into the ocean's waves.
I remember how they caressed him and wrapped around him, gently ebbing in and out, in and out.
I remember my mother watching him behind her sunglasses and her black, drooping hat.
I remember him calling out to me through the roar of the waves.
I remember being afraid.
I remember trying to swim out to where he was.
I remember the sea slapping my face and suddenly growing cold.
I remember the waves tugging me back to shore.
I remember how every stroke I made was pushed back twice by the sea.
I remember my father laughing.
I remember my fear of losing him.
I remember him swimming back to the shore, soaking wet.
I remember hugging him, my cheeks wet with tears.
I remember the promise he made to never leave me again.

I remember leaving the beach at sunset with my mother, my father, and my sister.
I remember my mother running to the car to get home.
I remember my father looking back at the sea.