I laughed from the dock as Daddy sailed by again, smiling and waving his "Hang Ten" sign with his fingers. I brushed my hair out of my eyes and waved back. Salt water spray from his board cooled my sunbaked face.

"Why can't I kitesurf, Mama? You know I'm a good surfer." I looked up at my mother's pursed lips and crinkled eyes. My grin faded. Under wisps of golden hair flying about in the wind, her gaze never left Daddy, and I knew the answer before she spoke it.

"I said no, honey. Don't ask me again."

I turned back to watch my father and pout. I was a champion surfer, at least for my age. Daddy taught me how to surf when I was only six years old; I still had my first board. When I turned ten, I entered and won my first competition, and two years later, I was still reigning champion in my bracket.

And kitesurfing looked like so much fun. You just didn't get that kind of speed under a wave. I always thought the water was mighty and powerful, but I was starting to think wind had it beat. Plus you could kitesurf anywhere. No beach required. Which meant we could hang out on the pontoon boat and watch.

Daddy got the kitesurfing gear for himself when he got a promotion. Mama was pretty mad. She started yelling about how he wasted money without talking to her first and how it was dangerous. But Daddy pretty much ignored her. Mama was always yelling about something.

Daddy was far across the bay now. I brushed my hair out of my face again, wishing Mama had taken me for a haircut this week. It was super windy today.

That's when it happened. One minute, Daddy was surfing along. The next thing I knew, Daddy was as airborn as that blue-and-white kite. He never even had a chance. He slammed into that concrete wall so hard, we heard a big crunch from all the way across the bay.

"Daniel!" screamed Mama, running for the anchor. Her face, just moments ago golden brown from the sun, had faded to a greenish-white color. I just stared at her, and then turned back to where my dad had gone down. I couldn't even see him anymore.

"Billy, help me!" she cried, and my feet started moving. We hauled in the anchor, and the second it was out of the water, she left it to me to haul it on board while she ran to the steering wheel and started up the boat. In seconds that felt like days, we were speeding across the bay as fast as a pontoon boat can go. As we drove, she spoke into the radio. I don't even remember what she said. It was some sort of frantic babble. But whatever she said, it worked, because those boats with the flashing lights beat us to Daddy.

I can't tell you what I saw, even though it's frozen in my mind for eternity. I can't tell you, because if I told you how Daddy's head was flat as a pancake, how how his limbs floated all around at weird angles in that pool of blood, I might go crazy. I can't talk about it, because that was my Daddy. He was a person, a real person, an important person, not just some floating mass of blobby stuff that didn't even look like it belonged together.

I never surfed again.