Crashing Waves
When I was seven my parents took me to the ocean. We swam together on the low embankment, about four feet deep, chest-high to me. I grabbed Dad's hand and he swung me around in the water and smiled. I smiled too. The waves were small and rocked me slightly. It was kind of fun at first.
Eventually my parents got bored and stopped pretending to swim, just stood there talking about where we'd go after I got done swimming. They stopped looking at me so I swam out further. The small waves had started getting annoying; I would just get comfortable wading in a spot and the waves would rock me out of it. It was annoying.
The waves were getting bigger. It was fun to swim through them, like I was pushing back against a throng of enemies beating on the door while the scientist tried to defuse the bomb. I closed my eyes and pushed in tune with the waves. I was doing my part to save the world. Well, at least my part of the world.
As I swam further the waves got much bigger and much harder to resist. I was getting tired and the door was collapsing. "Just a few more minutes!" the scientist called out. I kept pushing, kept wading out further. The hero never faltered until the job was done. The waves grew enormous. The door was almost destroyed. Enemies were starting to pour through. I couldn't do anything. They knocked me back and rushed towards the scientist. "Almost done," he was about to say. I blacked out for a moment and when I woke up I had a mouthful of seawater and I was a handful of yards away from my parents. They smiled at me and laughed and Dad took my hand and we went to get some ice cream.
I totally wanted to swim here again.