by Teddy Engs Nick Jones When Dad paddles in I’m like thank God, no more sitting alone on this stupid beach, no more squinting against the violent sea-glare, no more trying to will him from his endless catch-a-wave-then-paddle-back-out cycle, counting down from ten, counting up from one, pleading let this be the last one let this be the last one each time a wave suggests itself on the horizon, but now, as Dad bellyrides the whitewater, dismounts in the shallows, marches again