Knock-Out Hero
I was at my niece’s birthday party last week (her mom took the picture above), when a former student asked me, “Have you ever saved someone from drowning?”
The young lady had just finished describing a rescue she’d witnessed. She’d felt helpless, unsure of her swimming abilities and unable to help a friend in need. As time ticked away, my student had searched the beach for a strong swimmer, so scared she would be too late. Her story ended well, but it could’ve been tragic.
“How about you? Have you ever saved someone?” she asked.
The short answer was “no,” but the long answer is “almost, but it’s better that I didn’t.”
I mean, I’ve pulled in a few drifters – adults and kids past their comfort zones, where toe-tips no longer touch seafloor, but they weren’t drowning, not really. They would’ve eventually made it back on their own. Not like that one time.
It happened on a beach in southern NC, on an island that had been a peninsula before the Intercoastal Waterway cut it loose from the mainland. Pleasure Island, embarrassingly named, isn’t part of the Southern Outer Banks (SOBX) but a dirty leg of Wilmington, trying to balance rough boardwalk bars and designer beachwear boutiques on a rubber-soled flip-flop of land.
I’d walked to the beach access one afternoon carrying my towel and book. I stood there, looking for a spot to stretch out and work on my tan amid the swarms of noisy beach-goers. In my twenties, a tan was a serious goal.
A man approached and stood beside me. He was about my age, a little older, handsome and fit, dressed for work or a formal event. He wore a dark business suit with slacks, a white button-up shirt, and a crisp jacket. He even had on a tie and loafers, as if he’d just stepped out of an important meeting. I figured he was checking the surf after work, deciding whether it was worth going home for his board.
I lingered, looking out at the ocean, surreptitiously checking out the cute guy, thinking of what I’d say to him. But before I got the chance for small talk, he took off running.
He sprinted toward the shore. As he ran, he tore off his jacket and flung it onto the sand. He loosened his tie with one hand and tossed it aside. His shirt came off next, then his belt, flying through the air. He kicked off his shoes by the water and dove full-length into the waves. It was insane.
No judgement here. I, too, get excited about a good swim, and I’ve have been known to jump into the ocean fully clothed. I thought he was just letting loose from his high-pressure job. In fact, I counted the odd behavior as points in his favor.
But as he swam strongly out to sea, a crowd gathered to watch, and the many sounds of the busy beach distilled into one noise. It was a noise I’d been hearing for while but hadn’t noticed, the sound of two teenage girls shouting for help beyond the breakers, being pulled out to sea while grasping a child’s ring float. Business Suit was swimming directly toward them.
I felt ashamed. There were people crying for help, and all I’d seen was the water, the seagulls, and the cute guy. After years of swim lessons and living at the beach, I was a strong swimmer, too, and knew how to rescue someone. I should’ve seen those girls and sprung into action.
And now what? I still wanted to help. The girls were not small, and they were clearly panicked. Though they had the ring, two of them could be too much for one guy. He might need me.
But I wasn’t about to draw attention to myself the way he had. If he didn’t need help, I’d just be making a scene and look like I was trying to steal his spotlight. These are the silly thoughts that went through my twenty-something tan-loving head.
So, I walked to the shore at a fast but reasonable rate, dropped my towel and book discreetly along the way, and stepped into the ocean.
I swam steadily toward the rescue-in-progress, way out to the deep water, where Business Suit, the two girls, and I were the only ones around. He’d reached them. I hovered fifteen feet away, treading water, waiting to see if he needed help.
Drowning people can lose their nice natures. They panic and grab onto any chance of survival, becoming irrational with fear. They can push a rescuer under, dooming both parties. Two drowning women and one well-meaning man could be a recipe for disaster.
But he had it. Gradually, Business Suit pulled the girls to shore, their screams dwindling and the crowd’s cheering increasing. As the onlookers checked on the beached girls, our hero slunk away. He picked up his clothes and returned to the access, fading into the bright sunlight.
And me? I swam around for a bit before making my to shore, glad to have been useless, because I knew how it would’ve played out if I was involved.
As I mentioned, drowning victims sometimes fight and put their rescuer’s life at risk. What do you do if you can’t get the imperiled person to relax and just be saved? What do you do if your life is in danger? Especially as a petite woman, the risk was real. But I had a plan.
In a life-or-death ocean rescue situation, I will punch the person in the face repeatedly, until they either pass out or give up their struggle. Knock them out then drag them to safety, that’s my plan.
So it’s good for everyone that I didn’t have to get involved that day. Those two girls knew they were lucky, but they never knew just how lucky they really were.
Jessi Waugh Writer 