I was at the beach the day they came. I remember because I can still feel the sea spray against my face. I can still feel the warm sand, which had molded itself around my feet and slender calves, and can hear the crack of the waves as they slap the rocks that sparsely decorate the shoreline. It was hot that day. Not unbearably hot though which is typical for the summer. The humidity sits, much like heavy pendant, on top of your chest, leaving you gasping for your next breath. No, in fact, it was quite tolerable. It was hot in the way hot springs are hot or a freshly drawn bath; surprising at first, making you want to quickly retract whatever body part happens to be given to the water as tribute, but, if you wait long enough, it becomes soothing. It envelops you and you become one with the heat and when it leaves, even for a brief moment as a light breeze coasts over your skin, you find yourself missing its comfort.

          I remember lying back in the sand, hearing the seashells crunch as the weight of my body pressed them deeper into the ground. I remember looking up at the bright blue sky and watching the clouds pull apart like wispy strands of cotton candy before lazily floating whichever way they saw fit. It was peaceful. It was the first time in the week I could actually relax.

           Usually, I was down on the other end of the beach, out by the pier, helping off-load the catches of the day from the fishing boats. I’d carry the tubs over to a shack set up alongside the entrance of the jetty. Once all the ships were unloaded, I and the other hands would sit around in a half circle, three tubs sat in front of us. First was the one full of fish, the second a basin to catch the innards, and the third for the cleaned product.

           I did this every day, day in and day out; every day except today, that is. Every couple weeks, I was able to take a day off, much to the chagrin of my father. We desperately needed the money. We were completely broke. My father had taken what little we had and blew it on crap-shoot bets and pyramid schemes, hoping one day his luck would turn around and just knowing that he was going to hit it big. He never hit it big.

          That’s how I ended up at the pier at the first place, spending my prized adolescent days smothered with fish guts and blood. (Do you know how hard it is to get that scent out of your hair?) I guess you could say that’s how I ended up in every sticky situation; my parents needed money and I was the mule horse whose task it was to rake it in and watch it burn in my father’s hands.

          But today, I took the day off. I was exhausted, both physically and mentally. Physically from all the labor I put in down at the pier and mentally from the constant nagging and scolding I received from my parents. Even as I laid there on the beach, I could still hear my father’s voice ringing in my ears, echoing in the back of my mind.

          Jungkook-ah, why are you laying down? You need to be out working! What? Work is done for today? Aiya, work is never done! You could be finding people who need something done. Tchhh, my son is so lazy.

          I couldn’t take it anymore. So, instead of doing what I normally did, which was go down to the shack and see if one of the hands was a no show, I went to the best spot on the beach to laze about under the care of the summer sun. I could finally clear my mind and spend a few hours thinking of absolutely nothing, simply existing within the present moment. I was happy.

          That’s why when an official, armed with a .40 on his waist and a Tikka T3 strapped to his back and clad in all black showed up beside me with two more awaiting him just above the dunes by the boarded path, I was a bit more than surprised.