IT's too cold to swim.

Townes's skin prickles from the ocean winds. Caia's laughter swept into the air, whisked away to the clouds. There's no warmth to the bright rays of the sun.

They spend the days building sandcastles, making sand angels, kicking their shoes off to walk barefoot. They sit on their bums a stone's throw away from the shoreline, just enough to not have the waves crashing against the sand reach them.

They're about to leave, call it a day, as Caia stops in her tracks. She strips out of her t-shirt and denims. "I want to swim."

And so, they do. Hand in hand they count to three, squealing laughter falling off their tongues as they run into the water and then they swim.

It's too cold. But they swim anyways.