When I was four years old, my dad snapped his Achilles tendon playing volleyball at his company’s summer picnic. For two months, the best months of the year, he sat out back in the shade of our city house waiting to heal. He couldn’t drive and my mom was afraid to get behind the wheel. For eight weeks we were grounded, unable to go anywhere or do anything unless we could walk or take public transportation. We had a tiny blue pool that held a foot or two of water for me to splash in. Some days mom turned on the hose so that I could run through the spray. I stayed cool, but by August we were all suffering from boredom. We missed the beach.