As I sit here trying to put words to my thoughts, I am feeling very glad to be in my skin. Very glad indeed. I did not want to die yesterday at 6:30 PM and I nearly did. In fact, I have never come so close to meeting my Maker and facing my particular judgment as I did yesterday, July 14, 2013. Drowning is a terrifying way to die, but die we all must, someday.
It was the last day of my week vacation, I wanted to see the ocean and breathe in the fresh salt air. But I am not made for the water in hot weather. If my skin is not protected and the sun is out, I am doomed. I will burn, blister, and suffer, a condition I inherited from father who avoided the sun like a plague. Yesterday, however, my wife, knowing how much I love being near the ocean, suggested we head up to Maine after the 11:00 Mass at Saint Benedict Center in Still River, Massachusetts. I was surprised because Gwendolyn, my wife, is not usually spontaneous and likes to get prepared for any trip over an hour. We packed a lunch, had a hearty breakfast at a great Bickfords in Acton, Massachusetts. The waitress was a gem, in her late fifties I’d say, and filling us with admiration in that she was leaving for another job when her shift was over at Bickford’s. Two Jobs! Only one day off a week! And, yet, her smile could light up a room.
We had spent a week last year in York Beach, Maine, in the early Fall, when the sun is less forbidding. But this year we stayed home, enjoying something like a little retreat, with daily Mass and plenty of spiritual reading. It was also a time for me to address some health issues and get into a vitamin routine with carrot juice and other healants. Although I still have the health problem, I was physically strengthened with a renewed vigor, needing a lot less sleep and reading for hours without falling asleep. More importantly, I was renewed spiritually. Body and soul work together, so to heal the former, one needs to nurture the latter.
There we were at York Beach in the late afternoon. Before going to the sea we found an open Catholic church and made a holy hour. Gwen makes a holy hour every day, although she does not want anyone to know that outside of her circle of women friends who have committed together to do that for the salvation of souls. At about six o’clock we parked our car at the beach, where there were hardly any people left, mostly surfers. After putting enough coins in the meter for one hour, I discovered that my hat was not in the car. I needed that hat, a wide brimmed safari topper, or I’d have to make a turban out of my towel. I asked my wife if she could go back to the church where I had left my wide-brimmed helmet — I was at war with the sun, after all — but my poor wife could not find the church. When she returned without my hat, I headed for the water. All I wanted was a quick dip and, with my Aloe Vera anointing every piece of exposed skin, just a half hour or so to contemplate the waves at low tide.
So, I headed for the sea, like a giant. If I knew the Psalms better, Psalm 18 would have appropriately come to mind: “He hath set his tabernacle in the sun: and he, as a bridegroom coming out of his bride chamber, Hath rejoiced as a giant to run the way.”
Yes, that was me, with long pants and a tee-shirt heading out to meet my bride, the ocean. It had been four years since I did more than wade in the salt water. This time was going to be different. I was going to plunge or die. I did both — or would have — were it not for John O’Neill.
Gwen was on the shore wondering what the heck I was doing wading deeper and deeper, with all my clothes on, into the weedy green water where low tide had brought the sea back into a hundred yard recession. Chest high, I took the plunge. When I surfaced it was only for a second. I came up totally disoriented and could not plant my feet. The tide was pulling me out deeper — not over my head, but deep enough where my legs refused to cooperate and straighten out so I could stand. I kept being pulled under. I could barely get my head out of the water and gasp for air as the waves broke over me and I was pulled down under again while swallowing a lot of salt water. Again and again I was pulled under, finally managing to get out a loud “HELP!” before going down again. I was drowning in four feet of water, terrified: “Jesus, Mary save me!” I prayed. I thought that I would die if no one one came to rescue me. I was helpless.
Here are some providential details, that, were they not to have happened, I would have died. First, Gwen was walking along the shore watching me and, as I said, wondering what I was doing. She beckoned me to come in and walk with her, but I thought she just wanted me to move further south in the water to keep up with her stroll on the beach. So, this is what I was doing before my plunge. As I moved south I came within thirty yards of two teenage cousins, John and Charles, playing catch as they rolled the surf. When I yelled for help the boys heard me and they were close enough to swim to me. The older one, about thirteen I would say, a muscular boy and big, grabbed hold of me. As I was about to pass out, I could feel him wrap his arm around my neck and hold my head out of the water. This enabled me to breathe, but I still could not plant my feet while John had to keep my head from going under again. Mind you, I am about 270 pounds, so you can imagine how hard it was for the young man to hold me up.
Being too heavy, dead weight, to drag my body with one arm and swim with the other, John was shouting for help. Three men raced through the water and, catching me, they lifted me up so I could stand on my feet. John, meanwhile, slipped away. When they got me safely to shore I kept asking for the boy, but the men who rescued me did not know where he was.
I don’t remember the men’s names, but I know, in the providence of God, they were where they were if even to save my life. It took all three of them to get me out of the water and into a little lawn chair my wife had brought to the beach. These men would not leave me. They insisted on staying with me until my breath was fully restored and I stopped shaking. Apparently I was shaking for quite some time.
We are not finished yet. Seeing the rescue in progress, someone had called 911 and, minutes after sitting down, two EMTs showed up. They wanted to take my blood pressure and test for other vital signs and seemed genuinely relieved that I had not had a heart attack. They told me an ambulance was already there and they would like me to go to the hospital. When I saw the ambulance, I thanked them profusely but declined services. My refusal in words was not enough; I had to sign a waiver stating that I declined the examination offered.
As I was leaving the beach, the young man who saved my life came up to me with his mother. As I said, he was a strong lad with the map of Ireland written on his face. He asked me if I was alright. I said, “Yes, thanks to you.” Turning to his mother, I said, “How do I thank the person who saved my life?” Turning to John, I said, “You are a hero to me.” He was embarrassed. I thanked him again, said goodbye, and asked my wife if we could go home.
It would not have been a perfect ending if I had to leave York Beach without my safari hat. I really like that hat. We drove back to Our Lady Star of the Sea church and the custodian opened the door which had been locked. There was my hat in the last pew! God is good. Thank you, Lord, for another day!
