things and jump off the wall. “Scottie!” I yell. “Scottie, get in here right now!”
“There are Portuguese man-of-wars out there,” the woman says to me. A toddler clings to her leg; she’s trying to shake him off. “The swell must have pushed them in. Is she yours?” The woman points to Scottie, who is swimming in from the catamarans.
“Yes,” I say. She’s mine, but I don’t know what to do with her, where to put her.
Scottie finally comes out of the water. She’s holding a tiny man-of-war—the clot of its body and the clear blue bubble on her hand, its dark blue string tail wrapped around her wrist.
I grab a stick and take it off of her. “What have you done? Why are you doing this?” I pop its bubble so that it won’t hurt anybody else’s child.
The other kids are looking at her arm, which is marked with a red line. They take a few steps back. The toddler walks toward the man-of-war. “Bubbles?” He reaches for it, and his mom grabs his hand. He throws himself to the sand and wails.
“Should I get the lifeguard?” the woman asks.
“I’ll handle it,” I say. “Scottie. Go rinse your arm off.” She heads for the terrace. “No. In the salt water.”
“It’s not just my arm,” she mumbles. “I was swimming with, like, a herd of them.”
“Are you okay?” the woman asks. The other kids head back to the water, and she yells, “Stay out!” so loudly she sounds like an umpire.
“She’s fine,” I say, wanting the woman to leave. Her child is still crying, and it’s annoying. Can’t she give him a bottle or some candy?
I turn my back to her and walk toward the ocean. “Why would you stay out there, Scottie? How could you tolerate that?”
I’ve been stung by them hundreds of times; it’s not so bad, but kids are supposed to cry when they get stung. It’s something you can always count on.
“I thought it would be funny to tell Mom I was attacked by a herd of minor wars.”
“They’re not minor wars. You know that, don’t you?” When she was little, I would drink a few beers on the beach in front of the reef and watch the sun set while Joanie worked out. She’d point out sea creatures to me, and I’d give them the wrong names. I called them minor wars because they were like tiny soldiers with impressive weapons—the gaseous bubble, the whiplike tail, the toxic tentacles—advancing in swarms. I called a blowfish a Blow Pop; an urchin, an ocean porcupine; and sea turtles, saltwater hard hats. I thought it was funny, but now I’m worried that Scottie doesn’t know the truth about things. I’m worried my lessons are getting us all in trouble.
“Of course I know, duh,” Scottie says. “They’re manowars, but it’s our joke. Mom will like it.”
“It’s not manowar, either,” I say.
She dunks her body in the water.
“It’s man-of-war,” I say. “Portuguese man-of-war. That’s the proper name.”
“Oh.” She walks out of the water and begins to scratch herself. More lines are forming on her chest and legs.
“I’m not happy,” I say. “You need to just tell Mom that you miss her. She doesn’t need a story.”
“Fine. Then let’s go back. I’ll tell her what just happened.”
“We need to get home and put some ointments and ice on the stings. Vinegar will make it worse, so if you thought Giraffe Boy could pee on you, you’re shit out of luck.”
She agrees as if prepared for this—the punishment, the medication, the swelling, the pain that hurts her now and the pain that will hurt her later. She seems okay with my disapproval. She’s gotten her story, after all, and she’s beginning to see how much easier physical pain is to tolerate than emotional pain. I’m unhappy that she’s learning this at such a young age.
“The hospital will have ointments and ice,” she says.
We walk up the sandy slope toward the dining terrace. I see Troy sitting at a table with some people I know. I look at Scottie to see if she sees him, and she is