Captiva Island, August

Neil loved Captiva Island. I was ambivalent about the Gulf: it was like murky bath water—too hot for me to stay submerged for any length of time.

I grew up swimming at Stinson Beach, north of San Francisco, where even in summer, the water is about 65° due to the frigid Humboldt current that sweeps down the west coast from the North Pole. As a kid, I thought that swimming frigid ocean water was normal. But Neil loved the warmth of the Gulf. He was basking in it. Not like Scotland.

Florida in August is far too hot for the snowbirds. Only the hardy locals and the crazies went out in the August heat. Most waited until the sun went down to venture forth into the night. The upside of it was that we practically had the beaches to ourselves.

Neil was deep in conversation with a gaggle of men who were standing chest deep with their backs to the surf, when on the crest of a small wave, several black fins appeared. Everyone blanched and the men nearly shat themselves trying to make it to shore.

Forget about the wife and kids. It was every man for himself.

They fought a losing battle against the weight of the water as they churned toward shore. A 12-year-old kid who was playing near me climbed me like a tree. Not his dad, mind you. Me. I stood transfixed with this kid on my shoulders, watching the fins come nearer.

Then someone on shore said, Awww, look—dophins! The men stopped, and pretended that it was nothing.