He remembers seeing you here yesterday, this same beach, this same town. He’s never seen you here before, so maybe that’s why you caught his eye—the way you looked in the water, bobbing along the waves, resplendent. So when he sees you again, on your beach towel, salt-flecked and sundrenched, he gets the urge to say hello. Call it curiosity. Not often he sees an unfamiliar face.

“You’re good in the water,” he says. A pause, then he amends with a caution. Maybe he thinks it gives himself a decent excuse to have come up to you. “Gotta be careful with the current, though. No lifeguard for miles.”