I was travelling
through Mexico
The shore
there was not the packed beaches we’re used to in the States. It was deserted – no bathers, no lifeguard,
no one in sight. We could have been on an
uninhabited island.
The sun was
high and hot, and Susan, a slender actress with long, brown hair, got busy sunning
herself. I decided to try the water. I waded in until I was mid-chest deep, where
I stood enjoying the view of the endless ocean and cloudless blue sky.
In the
blink of an eye, the water level was over my head. There had been no wave, no warning, just
sudden depth. I struggled to the surface,
only to be pulled down by the undertow.
Again I fought my way up, gasping for air, and again I was sucked back down. When I broke the surface a third time, I
thought of screaming to Susan for help. I
didn’t. Even in my panic I knew there
was nothing she could do but endanger herself.
After what
seemed like an eternity of being tumbled helplessly washing machine-like beneath
the waves, I was totally exhausted, spent.
In my mind’s eye, I saw Susan boarding the plane home accompanied by my
body in a zippered plastic bag. It was over;
I was going to die in Mexico. It was to
be a one-way ticket.
At that very
moment of total, somewhat calm resignation to the inevitable, I found myself
standing mid-chest high in the water.
The ocean had receded as suddenly as it had come.
I staggered
out of the water. Susan smiled, lifted
her camera, and snapped a shot of me as I collapsed down on the blanket next to
her. I was shaken to the core. It wasn’t until the next day that I could
speak about it to her.
Twenty years
later, that photograph of me, pale, soaked, and looking like a man returned
from the grave, is hanging on the wall of my home office. It’s a reminder to me that life can be capricious,
and every day – every single day of life – is precious.
