When Death Snaps At Our Heels
Life can be over in an instant. Last Tuesday, I almost lost mine. If it wasn’t for a lucky moment or two, I would have smashed into the rocks at Manly’s South Steyne and drowned. Poetically, this was the same day I blogged about loving nature, because it helped me understand places and people. But nature is also mighty and volatile. A part of me still feels as if I actually did drown that day, and the only reason I’m writing this now is because I’m dreaming – of the life I might have lived had I survived.
My hubby Bill says the same, that life doesn’t feel real at the moment. It is otherworldly. Surreal. So many of the instructions he shouted at me when I was fighting to stay afloat fell soundlessly into the sea, I guess he also can’t believe I’m still here. “Zena! Don’t you give up! I need you to keep swimming!”
We’d been snorkeling in peaceful conditions with our two children, from a sheltered cove called Shelley Beach, along the coastline towards the open beach at South Manly. We’d already walked the coastline and checked out the ocean – everything had looked good. Even ten minutes beforehand, the sea had me gently bobbing up and down while I floated above schools of silver fish glinting in the sunlight. Beautiful.
But as we approached a rocky point in the land, the sea changed its mind, as its been known to do. It became choppy, swelling, collapsing and foaming around us. Our kids are used to the surf, having grown up on the beach, with Bill often taking them beyond shorebreaks to bodysurf. I play in the ocean myself every weekend in summer, though tend to stay within my depth to boogie board. Big waves scare me. And that’s what happened – the waves grew and, with rocks right alongside us, I didn’t like it.
“Bill?” I called to hubby, doing my best to dive and duck as the swell grew. “I don’t like this. Where do I go?”
He didn’t hear. He was getting our kids coolly and calmly past the breaking waves like he did at the beach. Once there, we could all have easily swum around and past the rocky point, then catch beach-bound waves to shore as planned.
But adrenalin flooded my body and, though I’m usually the calm type, the sudden mid-ocean break had me panicked. Waves began to pummel down on top of me and soon I struggled to catch my breath, swallowing water instead. “Bill! Help!” It became harder and harder to focus on the waves, or time when I should duck under and resurface.
Finally my son heard me calling, and Bill turned to see waves crashing, swamping and pushing my already exhausted body closer to the rocks, now mere metres behind. I’m a good swimmer, whether freshwater, poolside or ocean. But by now I had to drag my limbs from the syrup. Kicking got me nowhere.
“Help!” I yelled to people ambling along the coastal pathway above the rocks. “Help!” I signaled to a helicopter flying overhead.
There was nothing anyone could do. There were no lifeguards nearby, Bill couldn’t reach me without endangering himself and he had to stay with our children, who were bobbing safely beyond the break. “Help!” I told no one.
The worst was yet to come. The tallest wave yet, swelling metres above, smashed into my head, ripped my snorkel and goggles from my face and hurtled me backwards, spinning me around and around.
When I get ‘dumped on’ by a wave at the beach, it usually carries me all the way to the sand. There was no sand behind me, only rocks. I closed my eyes and waited to die.
Instead, after churning forever, I slowed. I peeked out. Everything was white.
Foam?
I relaxed my body, hoping it would float,
and once the swirling stopped altogether, I kicked for what I thought was the
surface.
It was.
“Zena!” Bill yelled, half-angry, half-teary. “Zena! Now! You have to swim now!”
The ocean swells in sets of waves, with lulls between them. He must have seen a lull. This was my chance. Still, he was asking the impossible. I couldn’t swim anymore.
“Zena, please just swim. Please. Duck under
the waves and swim past the break. Pretend you’re in the pool doing laps. Anything,
just swim. You can rest when you reach the children!”
The ocean began to swell again. The children were a good 25 metres away. There was no way I’d make that, not with my body so tired. Still, I wanted them to see me trying, because we should always try. So I ducked under the first set and hauled one arm after another through the glue. Thicker swells grew in the distance.
“Please, Zena. Swim!”
There was no point, but he sounded so sad I
wanted to make him happy. I took a breath and tried again.
“That’s it! Keep going!”
The children got no closer. I was clawing my way through a sludge of water so dense and draining – I couldn’t do it. They were so far away.
“Just get to the children, then you can
rest!”
So I swam, and swam, dragging and panting, and swallowing, until… no more waves broke on top of me. “Am I there?” I couldn’t actually believe it.
“Yes. Float on your back.”
My daughter took off her flippers and gave them to my son, who dived under the surface to push them onto my feet. I could hardly raise them. Bill gave me his goggles. Then he and my son swam ahead to search for a sandy way to shore.
The nearest option was a smaller cove called Fairy Bower, where a set of metal steps led from the coastal pathway into the ocean, surrounded by rocks but with one sandy channel. I followed my son slowly, sometimes on my back, sometimes breaststroke, and finally touched sand.
“Quickly!” Bill yelled, bashing at the
water. About thirty blue-bottle jellyfish floated around the steps, waiting to
sting us. Their stings can be excruciating. He swatted them aside and we
climbed out of the water unscathed. Well, apart from my chest, which clutched
as tight as my hands to the railing and my toes to the metal steps. The
constriction grew so much I feared it a heart attack! So we plodded to the
lifeguards at Manly Beach, hoping it was just a side effect of panic.
They said it was so we went home, though the tightness stayed with me for five hours. Then life continued as normal, albeit dreamlike and otherworldly. Sometimes also sad. As I type this, it feels like a story I’m writing, not real life, and in a way that’s reminded and reassured me that the stories I write, and the danger I offer my characters, is completely and utterly realistic.
Exploring and adventuring can come with risks – you can face death. Last week wasn’t my first time. Whitewater-rafting in Costa Rica – I was thrown off our raft and broke my nose. Climbing over lava tubes in Hawaii – I almost fell through a thin cracking crust and into bright red lava flowing below. Altogether, I’d say I’ve now used up five of my nine lives. A character with that many near-death experiences mightn’t sound believable! So I think I’ll stick to putting my characters in danger and allowing them to face death, but not as much as my own reality.
You can find out what I mean by reading one of my stories! Towards White has a fine set of thrills and adventures, as do many of my short stories. Read some of them over here!
Meanwhile, what about you? When was the last time death snapped at your heels?
