Keep On Top of the Water!
On Saturday, Wendy and I almost drowned in the Carribean Sea.
Maybe we weren't in as much danger and it seemed, but we had to signal for help from some of the other hotel guests, who came out to our rescue.
We were ignorant of the water and arrogant in our ignorance. We passed by little red vinyl flags that had been posted to warn swimmers of the undertow. Even a woman who came passing us on the beach warned us not to go in the water, but because there was a man out there with his daughters in the water, we thanked her and promptly ignored her warning. We put our scuba masks on and paddled out into the water. We swam under the crashing waves and remarked on how the water was too choppy to see any fish. We looked back toward the shore and found that somehow, so quickly, we were out about twice as far as the other people. We wanted to go past them, but it was confusing to me how we had gotten so far away in so short a time.
I panicked before Wendy did and told her we should go in. We swam toward the shore, but ended up a little further out still. Then Wendy started to panic. The level of her alarm grew like a grassfire, and when she looked at me, I became so scared. I recognized in her a rich, full fear of death, the fear that is always in the back of my mind, the fear I keep covered and boxed-in by boredom and entertainment and eating and sleeping and sex and distraction and work.
And still, I felt like there was a way out. I shouted at her to be calm, to float on her back, and to swim harder. I could see that she couldn't breathe right (the first ability she loses when I chase her around the house for fun, or when I jump out at her from a closet; the second is her ability to run). "Swim on your back!" I yelled, and she did for a time with her feet kicking my shoulder or my head. She righted herself again to swim forward, and I guess I did, too. It seemed that we were still moving out or at best holding our position. Nothing we tried got us closer to the beach, and we frantically tried every move we could think of--breast stroke, dog paddle, even simple treading.
Wendy found an outcropping of coral and and called me to it, but we couldn't stay. Each wave would hit us and we would get pulled off the coral away from the beach. We kept coming back, gasping for that same spot only to be tossed off it again. By now, Wendy's primal moans and become urgent, shouting pleas of "Oh, God!" She had the good sense of waving her arms and screaming for help--something that had not come to me in time-altering panic of things. The man, who was there with his daughters called "Do you need help?" and I think we both called "Yes!"
He was swimming out toward us and another man had jumped in, too, who was shouting to us as he swam. "Stay high in the water," and/or "Stay on top of the water." With the wild surf, it was hard to hear him, but it finally came through. Stay on top of the water. It sounded to me like instruction from one panicked mind to another; I thought he meant don't go under, don't drown.
They were quickly upon us. One was there first (I can't remember which), and then the other was there with an empty one-gallon jug. Wendy, one of our rescuers, and I each tried to hold onto the handle of that jug. Tim, who we had passed on the beach with his elderly father, gave us clear direction that explained what was shouted at the beach: Don't try to swim, get your body parallel to the surface the water and let each wave push you in. He also had us swim toward the side of where we were because "it is bad there."
It worked. After the first wave moved us forward, I let go of my share of the jug handle. Eamon, the father who was closest when we signaled, was next to me. He smiled and said, "I can taste the beer now. I can taste the beer now."
Two or three waves brought me to where my feet could touch the sand. Tim instructed us not to try to walk in, but I couldn't help ignoring this command. Traction, even in water, holds so much more authority over my senses than even a heroic stranger swimming out to save my life. Three or four other people had come in that far to pull me in by the hand.
I thought Wendy was ahead of me coming in, and I went to where we put our towels, but she wasn't there. I looked around and saw she had come out at an angle to my left and was on the beach. I gathered our stuff and brought it to her. She was crying very hard, and a crowd had gathered to console us. I pulled out a bottle of water for her and it passed from hand to hand to hand before it was tilted into her mouth. Someone instructed me to pour some on her head, so I did. A woman came running with more water, and people relaxed into stories of how this type of thing often happens to people with good and bad results. Eamon, as it turns out, pulled another couple of people out of the water last time they were there.
The panic was the first to subside, and then the embarassment declined to joking levels. We got lots of looks from the other people at the hotel, and some recognition after the fact by people we met ("So you're the ones").
Afterward, when remembering the moment I saw the unspeakable dread in Wendy's face, that dispair of fate in her eyes, I realized that we were at the same departure gate through which passed all drowning victims--a tetherless, helpless position against an ancient mass.
Maybe we weren't in as much danger and it seemed, but we had to signal for help from some of the other hotel guests, who came out to our rescue.
We were ignorant of the water and arrogant in our ignorance. We passed by little red vinyl flags that had been posted to warn swimmers of the undertow. Even a woman who came passing us on the beach warned us not to go in the water, but because there was a man out there with his daughters in the water, we thanked her and promptly ignored her warning. We put our scuba masks on and paddled out into the water. We swam under the crashing waves and remarked on how the water was too choppy to see any fish. We looked back toward the shore and found that somehow, so quickly, we were out about twice as far as the other people. We wanted to go past them, but it was confusing to me how we had gotten so far away in so short a time.
I panicked before Wendy did and told her we should go in. We swam toward the shore, but ended up a little further out still. Then Wendy started to panic. The level of her alarm grew like a grassfire, and when she looked at me, I became so scared. I recognized in her a rich, full fear of death, the fear that is always in the back of my mind, the fear I keep covered and boxed-in by boredom and entertainment and eating and sleeping and sex and distraction and work.
And still, I felt like there was a way out. I shouted at her to be calm, to float on her back, and to swim harder. I could see that she couldn't breathe right (the first ability she loses when I chase her around the house for fun, or when I jump out at her from a closet; the second is her ability to run). "Swim on your back!" I yelled, and she did for a time with her feet kicking my shoulder or my head. She righted herself again to swim forward, and I guess I did, too. It seemed that we were still moving out or at best holding our position. Nothing we tried got us closer to the beach, and we frantically tried every move we could think of--breast stroke, dog paddle, even simple treading.
Wendy found an outcropping of coral and and called me to it, but we couldn't stay. Each wave would hit us and we would get pulled off the coral away from the beach. We kept coming back, gasping for that same spot only to be tossed off it again. By now, Wendy's primal moans and become urgent, shouting pleas of "Oh, God!" She had the good sense of waving her arms and screaming for help--something that had not come to me in time-altering panic of things. The man, who was there with his daughters called "Do you need help?" and I think we both called "Yes!"
He was swimming out toward us and another man had jumped in, too, who was shouting to us as he swam. "Stay high in the water," and/or "Stay on top of the water." With the wild surf, it was hard to hear him, but it finally came through. Stay on top of the water. It sounded to me like instruction from one panicked mind to another; I thought he meant don't go under, don't drown.
They were quickly upon us. One was there first (I can't remember which), and then the other was there with an empty one-gallon jug. Wendy, one of our rescuers, and I each tried to hold onto the handle of that jug. Tim, who we had passed on the beach with his elderly father, gave us clear direction that explained what was shouted at the beach: Don't try to swim, get your body parallel to the surface the water and let each wave push you in. He also had us swim toward the side of where we were because "it is bad there."
It worked. After the first wave moved us forward, I let go of my share of the jug handle. Eamon, the father who was closest when we signaled, was next to me. He smiled and said, "I can taste the beer now. I can taste the beer now."
Two or three waves brought me to where my feet could touch the sand. Tim instructed us not to try to walk in, but I couldn't help ignoring this command. Traction, even in water, holds so much more authority over my senses than even a heroic stranger swimming out to save my life. Three or four other people had come in that far to pull me in by the hand.
I thought Wendy was ahead of me coming in, and I went to where we put our towels, but she wasn't there. I looked around and saw she had come out at an angle to my left and was on the beach. I gathered our stuff and brought it to her. She was crying very hard, and a crowd had gathered to console us. I pulled out a bottle of water for her and it passed from hand to hand to hand before it was tilted into her mouth. Someone instructed me to pour some on her head, so I did. A woman came running with more water, and people relaxed into stories of how this type of thing often happens to people with good and bad results. Eamon, as it turns out, pulled another couple of people out of the water last time they were there.
The panic was the first to subside, and then the embarassment declined to joking levels. We got lots of looks from the other people at the hotel, and some recognition after the fact by people we met ("So you're the ones").
Afterward, when remembering the moment I saw the unspeakable dread in Wendy's face, that dispair of fate in her eyes, I realized that we were at the same departure gate through which passed all drowning victims--a tetherless, helpless position against an ancient mass.
Labels: Wendy
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