When I was about ten I stayed at my aunt's beach house in Punta Negra, on the Lima coast. There was a beach we were all warned away from, a very strong undertow and a steep drop in the floor a few feet out. I was riding my bike with my brother and friends when a woman came running at us, screaming that she needed help. I was sent to the house to look for my mother, since she is a nurse.
Turns out this woman's boyfriend, a 22-year old student, had run in and pulled her out after she got caught in the undertow. As a result, he spent the rest of that afternoon and night being battered against the rocks. The helicopters sent to rescue him couldn't fly that close, or they risked being beaten against the same rocks. The men that were hanging from rope ladders came away with their legs shredded and bloody. I had been sent home, but I was young and scared and I wanted my mother, so I hid behind some rocks and watched until I fell asleep and my brother took me home.
The next night we had a bonfire vigil and waited for the body to wash up so they could take it away. That was the first dead body I ever saw.