The spring storms came early that year, pounding the rocky coast of Crescent City with a ceaseless gray violence. Townsfolk had always said the sea around Battery Point Lighthouse could eat a man whole and spit out only rumors, but they never expected it to become quite so literal. The body surfaced at low tide, tangled in kelp and snagged on the black volcanic boulders beneath the lighthouse promenade, where high school sweethearts sometimes made out and old-timers came to reminisce about the pre-tsunami days.