Winter Light

This is the place where I feel most alive. There is something about the way the clear sky turns deep blue against the fiercely reflective snow that lifts my spirit – a world away from the winter gloom of deepest Surrey. Home has its own attractions, but I feel energised by the Austrian Alps, and the prospect of new off-piste adventures around Zell am See and beyond. I’ve been coming here since I was four with my parents, always to the same apartment. My dad is an architect who designed the block and negotiated four weeks a year for his firm’s use as part of the fee deal.

My parents are keen skiers and always try to make the most of it, with at least one week in summer when you can ski on the Kaprun glacier in the morning and swim in the lake in the afternoon. The view down the glacial valley from the top of Kaprun towards the lake and the mountains beyond – with its immense depth of field – is, as Mum likes to say, 'a glimpse of heaven'.

I‘m sixteen, but people say I look older, probably because I’m nudging six feet tall with a wispy beard. This morning, exhilarated by the fine weather, I’m up early, out jogging by the frozen lake. The village centre has been cleared. No matter how big a dump they have, the Esplanade paths are almost always snow-free and safely gritted – quite a contrast to England, which invariably seems surprised by even the lightest snowfall. In summer, this lakeside park, swimming pool and diving area would be packed with sunbathers, but this morning it is just me, and a woman in the distance walking her dog. My eyes follow the dog, ambling cheerfully on a long lead, taking time out to sniff anything of interest.

As the woman approaches, she lets the small terrier off the lead and reaches into her pocket. For a moment, she looks away as a small creature scuffles by. Spring is coming, so it’s probably a squirrel. The dog is on to it straight away to give chase. The animal speeds across the snow, straight out over the frozen lake without breaking stride. The dog follows in hot pursuit, struggling a little with the depth of the snow once it is off the path.

You can only tell the lake edge by its flatness – all other features of the shoreline are obscured by snow. There are warning signs everywhere, but the dog is oblivious to the danger and blasts on. The woman is beside herself, shouting “Katharina!”

I’m about a hundred metres away. So far, it seems to be just an amusing incident. However, I’m concerned when the woman ventures out onto the ice. In January, I wouldn’t worry, but in late March, you can’t be so sure. She walks towards the dog, which refuses to give up the chase. Eventually, it loses interest and turns back. The woman is delighted and calls to her calmly, holding out a treat. She is fiddling in her pocket, but continues walking. My internal alarm bell starts ringing. I am about to shout a warning…

A crunching groan precedes a sharp snap as the ice gives way …and down she goes. I’m alarmed by her sudden disappearance, but I have to help – just as I would with a skiing accident. I’ve had some mountain-rescue training, but not much that is relevant here. Part of the course involved: jumping into a freezing plunge pool fully clothed; recovering from the ensuing hyperventilation brought on by the cold-shock; and then rescuing myself out of the pool. It was a basic course, so we hadn’t practised saving anyone else. My only guidance is what I remember from the lectures. I call 112 for the fire brigade and give them the map coordinates from my phone. They estimate that they’re 10-15 minutes out. That should be OK…

When I look at the woman’s head reappearing, it’s not OK. She’s flapping her arms and bobbing under. The audible gasps are a clear sign that she’s in trouble. The dog is close and barking loudly, but no help at all. I look around for assistance, but the Esplanade is deserted. Forlornly, I shout ‘Help’ a couple of times, but there’s no answer.

I need to do something …now!”

I’m relieved to see a lifebuoy and a rope on a lakeside support frame. I decide to put it around my waist and pay out the rope behind. Furled up, it looks quite long – but unlikely to be long enough.

The woman is still thrashing wildly. “Calm down and breathe. I’m coming to get you. What’s your name?” I ask, hoping to soothe her with a control in my voice that I don’t feel.

“Alice.” comes back the distant answer.

“I’m coming to get you Alice, Hang on to the edge of the ice if you can …facing the way you came. ”

She’s about forty metres from the shore, but it doesn’t take long to realise that the line won’t reach. As I get to the end, I have no choice but to cut it, using my trusty Swiss Army knife, and rely solely on the lifebuoy and a few metres of rope.

‘It’ll be fine.’ I tell myself, now in a hyper-real state of mind.

Keeping both hands on the lifebuoy, I tentatively edge forward. The surface in front of me is a perfectly flat snowfield, apart from the footprints of the woman and the dog. Ominously, in the distance, there are visible fractures and some dark patches where holes in the ice have appeared. The spring sunshine is beginning to take effect. I try to clear my mind of all doubt.

When I’m a few metres from Alice, I carefully step out of the lifebuoy and throw it towards the hole.

“Grab it, Alice”, I call. She immediately clutches her arms around the ring and leans her head on the top.

“Good. Now put it over your head and around your chest if you can”. This sounds simple enough, but Alice can’t bear to let go.

‘That’ll have to do, ’ I tell myself and start to pull. My feet immediately start slipping, so I widen to a Karate stance, trying to spread my weight on both axes of my body. For a moment, it’s working …her upper body is on the ice …looking good.

Despite my warning, Alice lets go of the buoy when she reaches out for the solid surface. Unfortunately, there is only water over ice - with zero traction. The recoil effect of letting go of the buoy under strain compounds the problem. She plunges back into the water with a startled scream. The dog is agitated and rushes towards me, yapping and bearing its teeth.

‘How long before the Fire Brigade get here?’ I wonder ...tick tock. The dog is fierce, so I push it away sharply. It backs off with a whimper.

“Let’s try again, Alice”, I say, as calmly as I can muster.

I look at her for the first time. She is a beautiful girl in her early twenties – but her clear blue eyes are consumed with despair. “I’m sorry …but I can’t hold on when you pull. I have no strength left,” she says. This is likely to be true by now, so I resolve to reduce the resistance in some way. This time, I carefully throw the buoy to the edge of the hole and ask her to grab it without pulling it into the water. This is difficult to judge, but by tensioning the rope just as she reaches for the buoy, I prevent it from falling in. This time, she has a good hold on it, and her head is higher. She half-smiles as she looks at me with renewed hope. I quickly tell her my plan. On my signal, she is to raise her legs and frog-kick behind her, while I will use the frictionless ice around the hole to pull the buoy and her out of the water in one go. She starts kicking, and I start pulling. It’s effective, even though I am sliding towards the hole almost as fast as she is coming out of it.

This time there’s no warning. The ice gives way, and a long crack opens along the centre line of my body and the rope. Down we both go. The bad news is that, as she lets go of the buoy, it skids off, away from the hole. I also lose the rope as I fall. The cold-shock is as bad as I remember from training, but this time it is accompanied by intense fear.

The dog is still yapping, Alice is crying desperately, and there’s broken ice all around. Worst of all, Alice has her hand in my jacket pocket for support and won’t (or can’t) let go. I ask her to paddle on her own. She nods weakly but can’t speak. She has only minutes left unless I get her out.

There’s no safe edge to hang onto, and I’m the only one swimming for both of us. ‘Concentrate, ’ I tell myself, still trying to recover from hyperventilation. I try to use whatever freedom of movement I have to push away large lumps of broken ice. I need to find a new safe edge in the direction we came from. It has already borne our weight once, so it should do so again. After some effort, I find an edge that might work. It’s not as straight as I’d like, and all the while I’m being dragged back by Alice’s pull …surely they must come soon!

Decision time. I’m still confident of being able to pull myself out, but it would mean shaking off Alice by force. This wouldn’t be easy because she’s clinging on for her life. If I got out, I would struggle to reach her across the expanse of broken ice. How would I lift her out from above? It wasn’t possible …I have another idea.

“Alice. Please listen…” She’s very weak but wants to hear. This is pure improvisation, but I need to sound as confident as possible.

“I’m going to put both my elbows on the edge of the ice. Get behind me and try to climb on like I was piggybacking you. When I say ‘go’, we’ll both stretch out our legs behind. I’ll gently breaststroke kick. I want you to do the same stroke, but with all your strength and use the forward momentum to crawl over my shoulders. I’ll stay as low as possible and keep my head as flat as I can. Try to be quick. Do you understand?” Alice nods.

I manage to force my elbows over the edge …which hold, but I can instantly see a problem. Part of the edge between my elbows is missing. There’s an indent just where you wouldn’t want one – meaning that there’s nowhere to support my head between my elbows …but there’s no going back on the plan now. Last chance.

“Go!”

Alice works her way into the piggyback position. We both start kicking, and she clambers over my shoulders. Keeping my elbows firmly on the edge, I’m able to reach back to grab Alice’s ski jacket and haul her over my head. She slides forward rapidly, but this bashes my forehead on the edge of the ice, which partly breaks away. My elbows are still in place, but Alice is stuck, bridging across the gap, with her lower half pressing down on my shoulders and her upper body on the ice. She’s struggling to gain any leverage at either end, with nothing to push or pull against with her hands. Her knees are digging into my upper back as she tries to scramble forward. I hold my head up as long as I can, but the pressure eventually drives my head below the water. I take a deep breath as I go under, but then can hardly move – the top of my head is jammed against the edge of the ice. With my last ounce of strength, I kick forward and attempt to launch Alice fully onto the ice using only the leverage of my lower arms…

* * *

I wake up to find myself on a sunbed on the lawn of the Zell-am Zee Lido.

It’s the exact spot where, minutes earlier, I’d called the Fire Brigade – only now the wind is gently rippling on the lake and …it’s the middle of summer. Both of my parents are reading nonchalantly beside me. The Lido is quite crowded, with lots of children …and dogs. The dog alongside me in the next family group is sheltering under a parasol. Its owner, a beautiful bikini-clad girl in her early twenties, is sitting up, facing me and taking a drink. She catches me looking at her and seems amused. She flicks her eyebrows at me over her sunglasses and flashes a half-smile. The dog is a terrier with a red collar. I notice the name on the collar. ‘Katharina’.

Dad leans across and remarks to Mum.

“Ann dearest. It wakes!”

“Amazing. Such a deep sleep. I thought we’d lost him. Do you think that Coca-Cola was all he drank with his Austrian friend last night?”

“Hear that, son? How’s the head? Anything to confess?”

I feel shell-shocked and speechless … “It all seemed so …real”.

Dad looks concerned. “Seriously, son. Are you OK?”

I pause, feeling completely discombobulated. When I speak, I say,

“Dad. You know how you like to philosophise …especially when you’ve had a bit of weed on the terrace with Mum …don’t deny it,” I add, as Dad feigns indignation. “I can always smell it. Do you think I’m dumb?”

Dad relaxes. He thinks this is just going to be one of our quasi-intellectual bickering sessions.

“I was thinking about your idea that conscious experience, memory and dreams are all written into our minds in the same way …into the same filing cabinets, as you like to say. You also say that our imagination and future plans are written in the same script. I usually humour you, but I honestly think I get it …as in, I’ve just experienced it.” Dad snorts, as if I’m taking the piss. I glance across to see his sceptical look.

“I’m not joking, Dad. Let me see if I can get this right. You say that consciousness is dominant because of the consistency of its ‘triggers’ that carry on from day to day unchanged and are shared by others. The other ‘states of mind’ don’t pass these tests. As I understand it, whilst we’re reliving a memory, or dreaming a dream, or imagining a new building, in your case, you’re using the same cerebral tools to recreate the world you perceive. Whilst we are immersed in each of these states, they seem just as real as each other. You love to conclude that “ergo, there is no immutable objective reality.”

“Is that what I say? That does sound pretentious coming from you.”

“It has always sounded pretentious coming from you, dear”, Mum chips in, “…but I still love you.”

“So what brought this on ?” Mum sounds concerned at my sudden acknowledgement of Dad’s philosophical genius.

“I’ve just had the weirdest dream…”

At that, Dad leaps up from his sun-bed and says, “Race you to the pontoon!”

It was understood in the family that, when this challenge is dropped, all other considerations had to be suspended.

Both of my parents are athletic. Dad is strong and fast for his age, but Mum’s technique is more refined. They’re usually neck-and-neck in swimming contests. Until last year, they had always beaten me – no quarter was given or expected. But on the final day last summer, I’d beaten Mum. Dad hasn’t yet succumbed, clearly believing that he still has an edge over me. Despite my current state of disassociation, I leap into life and hare after him, ending up only slightly behind at the water’s edge.

The pontoon is about a hundred metres out, so I need to pace it. At first, I fall back, but soon feel myself gaining steadily. As a bit of gamesmanship, I swim close to Dad. I draw level with his waist, less than three feet behind. I want him to sense, and then accept, the inevitable as my superiority is confirmed – the passing of the generational baton. It’s close, but I judge it well and win by a hand-length.

We climb the ladder where he gracefully accepts defeat with a handshake. I try not to look smug …but I fail miserably.

We both look back at the shore where Mum is waving. She mouths, “Who won?” At first, we both point to ourselves …until Dad turns his finger around with a smile. Mum applauds, beaming her approval.

“Seriously, Dad, I had the weirdest dream. Let me tell you about it.

Without looking at me, he waves back to Mum.

“You don’t need to, son. I already understand, but I wanted to know that you are ready.”

“Ready for what?” I say, feeling perplexed.

I barely finish speaking before Dad’s firm push launches me headlong back into the water.

* * *

The Fire Brigade arrive, and Alice’s writhing body is forcefully dragged from my back. I'm floating free and can no longer feel the cold or the weight of my clothes.

The shaft of sunlight piercing the hole creates dancing patterns in the water – like that Hockney painting. It is mesmerising.

…I love the mountains …I love the lake. The light is different here.

This is the place where I feel most alive.