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Warm ocean breezes caressed his feet, but not over there, of course, because that was where the submarine blew up. Blew up, of course, with his father inside. His mother was elsewhere, where he wish he had been himself, but now he could only beat his head against his ineffective fist. Strife trifled with him at the worst times, like in 6th grade when Big Pants were in. Struggling with the loss of his favorite painter pants, he kicked the sand. The breeze blew on unrelentingly. His feet felt like summer sausage, cooked to perfection, as Hank would say. He missed Hank. He thought that back when Hank was King, submarines were Queen. Right?
Hank Bowfoot, his father, had built that submarine out of a couple planks and a 6 pack of Mumbletypeg. Now he, Gerald, wanted nothing more than to find the cans, so he could collect the 5¢. His true love, Marie, was truly lovely this time of year. In big pants she had been an eyeful. Together, they had enjoyed the ocean until someone mistook them for a flesh-colored submarine 's set of inflatable pontoons. Pontificating pretentiously, they pretended to absolve the crowd of Big Pant Sin. Typical of the 80's, they tossed their heads, big hair whipping back past thick layers of mascara, pants distant below.
Florid tropical air dampened their downy leg hairs, creating the effect of a coral reef under a warm ocean, the gentle breezes caressing unusually and fluorescently. But then there was an explosion.
"Goodbye Dad," he thought.
