A little boy went with his daddy to the beach. The air was hot and the water was warm. They played in the sand. They played in the water. They chased each other, and splashed and shrieked.
The daddy turned his back for a split second. Whoosh! A huge wave swept the little boy away. His daddy was frantic. He couldn't see him anywhere. He flailed around
and prayed and screamed his little boy's name. Nothing.
Cut to: the little boy. Helpless. Unable to swim, on his own, being swept out to sea. Powerless. Where was daddy?
Cut to: daddy. Praying and flailing and yelling and thrashing, blindly trying to grab his son before he was swept out to open water and torn limb from limb by a giant ocean tarantula, or vicious sea horse.
Suddenly: the dad felt something in his fist. A wad of hair! He jerked violently, and up out of the water came...his son's head! Oh no! He accidentally yanked his little boy's head off!
Are you paying attention? Just checking. Because the daddy loved his son so much, and prayed hard, the little boy was rescued, with his head still attached to his body. He was not even hurt, except for dormant psychological trauma that plagues me to this day.
And they went back to playing. In the sand.
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