This Happened to Me

When I was Ten Years Old, I was Swept Out to Sea

How a day at the beach almost killed me

When I was ten years old, I was swept out to sea.

My older cousin and her boyfriend had invited me to go to the beach that day, and I was super excited. It was a gorgeous summer morning, and Jen was my favorite cousin. I had a bit of a fangirl thing going on for her. I wanted to be her. She was 17 years old, beautiful and popular, and a cheerleader, too. She was easily the coolest person I knew.

When we got to the beach, we were pleasantly surprised to find it relatively uncrowded. We picked our way across the gleaming white sand, the surface so hot from the sun’s rays that it burned the bottoms of my feet. We set up camp in the most secluded spot we could find, tucking the corners of our blanket under the sand so it wouldn’t blow away in the wind.

The sea was as warm as bath water. The waves were fairly high, their white, foamy tops breaking powerfully against the shore. The three of us stood in the surf just past the breaking point, where the swells would lift us momentarily off our feet and then set us back down again. I felt weightless. Carefree. The sea was magic.

Jen and Rick headed back to our blanket after awhile to relax and have some snacks. I stayed in the water, unwilling to give up even a moment of the fun. I didn’t make it to the beach very often. My father had been injured during a routine hernia surgery the year before, and he’d been in the hospital almost continuously since. I often stayed with Jen’s family so my mother could make the 6-hour drive to Gainesville’s Shands Hospital, where my dad was being treated. Most days I was stressed out, worried, and scared, but this afternoon I let the ocean wash the cares from my heart. I was a mermaid.

It happened so fast that I didn’t understand what was going on at first. I turned toward the shore and saw Jen and Rick kissing, and I felt the simultaneous flush of fascination and embarrassed laughter bubbling up within me in equal parts. I opened my mouth to yell something snarky at them, but the words and breath both were knocked out of me as a wave hit my back with enough force to drive me face first into the water.

I felt my chin scraping along the shells and sand, and when I tried to get my footing, another wave hit and my feet were thrown over my head. I could feel the relentless pull of the sea sucking me toward the open ocean, though I still couldn’t quite figure out which direction was up. I was tumbling, my knee hitting my face, before my head finally broke the surface.

A flush of panic raced through my body when I saw how far I was from shore. I wasn’t a strong swimmer; most of my experience had taken place in pools. I treaded water clumsily and tried to scream. My lungs seemed to be compressed, and all I could manage was a faint, gasping cry.

The spray stung my eyes, and my leaden limbs were anchors, no longer propelling me upwards but dragging me down. I struggled to keep my face above the water as the salty swells washed over my chin and into my mouth. I sputtered and gagged, swallowing a mouthful of briny sea, then snorted a last, burning rush up my nose. The world went black.

The next thing I remember is being pulled out of the ocean by a lifeguard. I have absolutely no recollection of him swimming toward me or dragging me back to shore. One moment I was struggling to call for help, and the next my feet were touching the blessedly dry, burning sand once more. I was too shaky to stand, so I collapsed right there at the water’s edge, the waves still lapping greedily at my toes.

My cousin was there, hugging me and crying. I don’t know if she alerted the lifeguard or if he saw me struggling while she was busy with her boyfriend. I watched them talking and thought I saw a flush of shame on her cheeks, but none of their words registered. I was numb, completely devoid of emotion — likely in shock — but the sun felt amazingly warm and comforting on my skin.

To everyone’s relief, including my own, I was deemed healthy enough to go home without a visit to the hospital. On the ride back, Jen asked me not to tell her mother about what happened, and I agreed. I didn’t want to get her in trouble, but even more so, I didn’t want my mother to find out what had happened that day. She was already so worried about my dad. Even my immature, ten-year-old mind understood that the last thing she needed was to know her child had almost drowned while she was at the hospital with my gravely ill father.

Later that night, when we spoke on the phone, I told my mom how fun the day had been. I didn’t mention the kissing on the blanket or the incident in the water, only the warmth of the sea and the magical feeling of riding the waves, and her weary voice sounded fleetingly happy. My heart swelled in my chest. I knew I’d made the right choice.

As I hung up, though, I felt a bit hollow inside. She had mentioned planning a trip to the beach as a family when my dad recovered, but for the first time ever, the thought of the ocean held zero appeal. There was no enchantment to be found in the sea for me any longer. Though I didn’t know it at the time, I would fear the ocean for the remainder of my life, never doing more than dipping my toes in the water again.

My mermaid days were over.

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