You came to Coney Island often. It was like your second home, living on the beachside. You knew the place like the back of your hand— growing up here at the lighthouse, you knew what places were secluded from the outside visitors.

You went off to go surf a little. You waded on deeper, board in hand. You put it down, lying flat on your stomach, paddling your way outwards. Unluckily, a riptide occurred, pulling you and your board outwards. You were dragged underwater, until he spotted you.