He pulls over on a quieter stretch of PCH, right south of downtown Laguna—past the bustling crosswalks full of eager tourists, past the shirtless, brown men playing a game of pickup basketball, their white counterparts nearby punching a volleyball back and forth, back and forth, past the lifeguards making their attentive rounds—and parks the car on a skinny strip of pavement outside of Paul’s house.

These were the days before Laguna lost its last bit of hippie grittiness, when buskers still filled the streets with the twang of guitars, old drunk pirate men lingered outside of Hennessy’s, thrift shops lined every corner, and fresh fish tacos were served up for $1.50 at Taco Loco. You are 15, and your dad’s friend is a local. Your dad parked the car next to a small structure that couldn’t be more than a garage, but as you exit the car and buzz yourselves in you find that Paul’s house is down at the bottom of a steep cliff; you can take the 1,000 stairs down, or push a button and be transported by a tiny tram built to deposit you gingerly onto Paul’s back porch.

You push the button and the tram herks its way down the rocks. Water runs down the cliffside in rivulets, and tiny purple flowers burst from jagged crevices. Paul’s back porch is small, made of wood, and full of gear: kayaks, life vests, paddles, a surfboard, a wetsuit hanging over a rail. The cottage is small and perfect, tall ceilings with exposed wood beams, a table full of books and found coral and shells, huge windows overlooking the ocean. Sand is everywhere, and a small cat laces between your legs. You’ve known Paul your whole life, but you feel bashful. For the first time he is not your dad’s dorky golf buddy in the Titleist visor, loose shorts and polo shirt, but a bachelor who surfs and has a house on the beach.

Your dad, Paul, and his new girlfriend chat, you head out to the sea, drawn by the sherbet sky as the sun makes its way toward the horizon. It’s a perfect California night: warm breeze, easy waves, still plenty of heat in the air. You swim out past the breakers, playing that game with yourself where you turn and face the shore, close your eyes, and dare a big wave to surprise you. Suddenly a darkness appears, large, dark—a FIN! Then another. Another. You panic, and dread fills your guts. You glance back at the shore and see your dad’s jubilant face: DOLPHINS! You are surrounded.