We told ourselves a seascape that could contain predators and the visitation of arbitrary violence upon the unsuspecting no longer held any sway in our lives. As we emerged from the surf the wind was as sweet as a woman's kiss against the skin.

The girl said her name was Ida Durbin and she had seen us through binoculars from the jetty and paddled after us because a shark had already attacked a child farther up the beach. "You'd do that for anybody?" Jimmie said.

"There's always some folks who need looking after, at least those who haven't figured out sharks live in deep water," she said.

Jimmie and I owned a 1946 canary-yellow Ford convertible, with whitewall tires and twin Hollywood mufflers. We drove Ida back to the jetty, where she retrieved her beach bag and used a cabana to change into a sundress and sandals. Then we went to a beer garden that also sold watermelon and fried shrimp. The palm trees in the garden were strung with tiny white lights, and we sat under the palms and ate shrimp and watched the fireworks explode over the water.

"Are y'all twins?" she asked.

"I'm eighteen months older," I said.

She looked at both of us. "Y'all sure favor for brothers who aren't twins. Maybe your mama just liked the way y'all looked and decided she'd use just one face," she said. She smiled at her own joke, then looked away and studied the tops of her hands when Jimmie's eyes tried to hold hers.

"Where you live, Ida?" he asked.

"Over yonder," she said, nodding vaguely up the main drag.

"You work here in Galveston?" he said.

"For a little while, I am. I got to go now," she replied.

"We'll drive you," he said.