Every spring vacation, we would go to Miami Beach, and more often than not, the Bahamas as well. My dad didn’t let a small thing like 15-foot waves stop him.
She was sitting, her whole body clenched, in the cabin of the fishing boat as it made its way east from Miami Beach to the Bahamas. The waves were incredibly high, but probably not as high as they looked to her. They also probably didn’t quite run at a 90° angle, though they might as well have again.
By the time the boat had crossed the Gulfstream safely, and the drenched captain had docked the boat and was hosing the salt off of its sides, her hands had been clenched so hard for so long that they were paralyzed in strange contortions of finger and hand muscles. It took a half hour or so of hand-massage from both parents before she could move her fingers again.