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I think back to our return from the Riovan.

We got back to Cincinnati in the afternoon and took a taxi home.

As soon as I unlocked the door, Jess stomped off to the bedroom and started unpacking her bag.

Doing that silent, angry cry, where tears just spilled down her cheeks.

It had all started at the airport during our Miami layover.

I bought a bag of M time for storm protocols.

It’s a familiar routine. I switch the safety flag to red, then make for the shoreline, blowing my whistle and waving at the half-dozen swimmers still in the water.

‘Everyone out of the water, please!’

People gather up towels and beach bags, looking nervously at the sky. I don’t blame them. It’s hurricane season, after all.

As the wind picks up and the waves roll in with climbing intensity, I put up the DO NOT SWIM warning sign. That’s when I notice a straggler who seems to think it’s time to bodysurf. Yeah, bud, that’s how you die. I blow the whistle in two sharp bursts, then shout, ‘Hey! Time to come in!’