Caught In The Undertow

"Caught In The Undertow"

Trigger warning: This story features a near-death experience and some trauma afterward. Proceed with caution!

It was supposed to be just another lazy day swimming off the coast, enjoying some sun and gently lapping waves. You know, a taste of vacation and relaxation. Instead, I was treated to a small taste of Hell.

As it turned out, I almost died twice.

The first was in that fucking riptide as I flailed helplessly against the azure embrace threatening to swallow me. The current shifted out of nowhere, catching me off guard. Before I could comprehend what was really happening, I was ten feet down and totally disoriented. I gasped involuntarily, drawing in acrid tasting saltwater. It only took a few moments before I was overwhelmed.

Fortunately, I had a guardian angel on duty that afternoon.

My second brush with death was in that hospital bed afterward as I lay comatose for three days. They tried to explain to me what had occurred while I was under, but I'm not good with medical jargon. But from what I could make out, some kind of embolism had formed in my lung tissue while I was under, caused by ingestion of seawater.

I shouldn't have made it out. I was quite fortunate to survive.

Not just because of the expert care I received. But also because 'he' was there. Both times. First, he plucked me out of the water as I fought to stay afloat, and at great risk to himself, got me safely to shore, almost drowning himself as we frantically paddled to shore. I was delirious at the time, choking on that accursed saltwater, but we managed to arrive before I lost consciousness.

He then proceeded with CPR until the paramedics arrived on the scene and took over. He rode in the back of the ambulance with me, making sure I was well tended to. Then, he sat with me in my room as I slowly recovered. Putting his own life on hold to ensure that I stabilized.

He read to me constantly, I later learned.

Shakespeare. Dr. Seuss. Even some ancient philosophy tome he found god knows where, perhaps in one of the waiting lobbies. He helped monitor my vitals. Paged the nurses once or twice when my heart rate spiked. Supposedly even changed a bedpan or two.

Apparently, I also talk in my sleep. We 'chatted' about various things. I don't remember this part, but he playfully reminds me sometimes of my babbling while I was doped up in bed.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Who the hell goes that far for a total stranger? It wasn't as if he was a nurse, or otherwise trained in the healing arts, besides the CPR, so I couldn't help but wonder why he was so keen on seeing me recover. Was he just being a Good Samaritan, or something else?

When I finally crawled my way out of unconsciousness, he was still keeping vigil, as he had been for those three long days, in that awful suede chair by the window. The first muted glimpse of dawn peeked in through the hazy glass that hadn't seen any cleaner in a few months.

But upon hearing my strangled groans, that wonderful man stirred from his nap, opening his sky blue eyes. I still recall the first time our gazes met, but his concern overtook any genial greeting he may have used instead. He immediately paged for assistance as soon as I began to sit upright.

A flood of staff entered the room a few moments later and worked their magic. Honestly, it's still kind of a blur to me. Other than his baby blues, that is. Through it all, he didn't leave, nor did his gaze avert. He watched me intently, as if I may vanish at any moment if he didn't. Despite my willpower, I slipped back into sleep for a bit after being tended to by what felt like the entire hospital staff.

****

I came to that evening, groaning softly again. I glanced over at that chair. Sure enough, my savior was still there, pretending to read a small paperback novel. Two empty coffee cups perched nearby on a bedside table. Hearing me stir, he tossed the book down on the smooth wooden surface absently, turning his beautiful gaze towards me once again.

Finally managing to speak, I asked him who he was. He shrugged nonchalantly, avoiding the question. He started to explain what had transpired over the last few days, a hint of underlying sadness in his voice. From a valiant rescue, to the ambulance ride, to his silent vigil.

Incredulous, I demanded a better explanation from him. "Why me?" I asked firmly. "Why put your life on hold just for someone like me?"

He didn't answer out loud, anyway. But his eyes held the answer I sought. Even back then, I knew. It wasn't merely a case of 'right place, right time.'

As with many things, there are layers and depth to our emotions, especially in traumatic situations such as the one I had just endured. Mine were hopelessly turbulent for a bit, but after I calmed down, I did quite a bit of thinking, leaning back on the bed, silent. He didn't interrupt, but just sat quietly himself, lost in his own thoughts, I suppose.

I finally asked the question I'd been dreading. "Do my parents know about what happened?"

They were currently enjoying their fortieth wedding anniversary vacationing in Paris, oblivious to the fact that they had almost lost their precious daughter. My eyes pleaded with his, bracing myself for the answer.

But he calmly told me that he had taken the liberty to call them and explain my plight to them. Gently assuring them that I was on the mend, but imploring them to come visit with as much alacrity as they could muster. They agreed to take the next flight out and promised they'd visit as soon as they were able.

Sighing with relief, I slumped back onto the pillows, tears beginning to form in the corners of my eyes. I wept silently for a few moments, then turned to my angel, my voice suddenly tinged with a hint of frustration.

"Are you my babysitter or something, now? Why are you still here? Do you feel pity for the helpless woman who can barely swim, is that it?"

I didn't mean to sound so harsh, but I needed the truth. He began to stammer, his voice slipping a bit as he merely said that he was just doing what my parents wanted, to keep a close eye on me until they arrived.

After processing this information, I calmed myself a bit and apologized for snapping at him, sniffling a bit as I blew my nose with a graciously accepted tissue. He took it in good humor, blaming the aftermath of the incident. He quipped that a brush with death was not conducive to being courteous.

Sighing, he then stood up and asked me if I needed anything to eat or drink. I asked only for a cup of hot caffeine, extra sugar. Smiling radiantly, he went to retrieve a fresh cup for me. A few minutes later, he returned with a couple of steaming foam cups in his hands.

As he passed one of them to me, our hands brushed against one another for a brief moment. I felt a warm flash of heat run down my spine as I took it out of his outstretched hand, smiling for the first time in a long while. A confusing rush of emotions flooded my mind as we sat there, slowly sipping our hot beverages.

I believe the appropriate term to describe our inchoate affection is "Stockholm Syndrome." You know, when the victim starts to fall in love with their rescuer. Or something like that. That's all this could be, right? Gratitude, disguised like a wolf in sheep's clothing.

This couldn't be an epic love story, like that Shakespeare he had read to me, could it?

We continued to chat casually for a bit as the day passed. We spoke about various things, but nothing too philosophical. He even asked me if he could assist me with getting back in the water one day. Apparently, he's a swimming instructor. What luck, to be saved by one so fluent in aquatic affairs! I mused to myself.

I shook my head fervently, assuring him that my days of being in the ocean were firmly behind me. "No need to tempt fate twice," I said to him. He just smirked playfully at my declaration, but didn't urge me further.

My parents finally arrived a couple of hours later, looking jet lagged but relieved to see me awake. They rushed into my room and began crying and hugging me relentlessly. I returned their affection gratefully, feeling a bit smothered, but content with the fact that I was still able to return their hugs.

My hero also received his fair share of thanks, and many hugs and kisses besides. He lingered for a bit, but then during an especially vulnerable moment during which me and my parents just sat, openly weeping and holding me so tight I thought I might pass out again, he discreetly slipped out.

Sensing our need for private family time, I later realized.

That night, I found a slip of paper he had left on my table. His phone number was hastily scrawled on the front, along with a phrase that read, "swimming lessons," playfully written across the top. Chuckling to myself, I folded the scrap and put it in my pocket.

Of course, I wasn't ready. I needed no small amount of time to rest, and heal from my experience. However, he was so good to me, and I didn't want to leave him hanging. Not after putting his life on hold for a stranger.

****

Two weeks later, I finally found the courage to give him a call. He answered on the first ring, his cool demeanor betraying a hint of worry as he spoke. I set up a casual meeting for him.

Dinner, at my parent's house on the lake. Six o' clock. My mother's famous pot roast, envied by all who tasted it. They also wanted to properly thank him for everything he had done for me and keeping watch over me in the hospital.

He came promptly at six, pulling in the driveway in a weathered red pickup. Peeking out the window as I watched him awkwardly stroll up to the front door and ring the bell, I sensed he was a bit self-conscious. I opened the door a few seconds later. His eyes lit up as he saw me standing shyly in the doorway. Gesturing playfully towards the dining room, I invited him in. "It's gonna be okay," I whispered to him as he walked through the door.

He fidgeted in his seat uncomfortably a bit during the meal, but was able to put away two whole plates, much to my mom's delight. Afterwards, sitting on the front porch beside me in the twin rocking chair, he visibly relaxed. As we sat there, watching the sunset and letting our food digest, we learned a bit more about each other.

He relished my mom's culinary skills, then spoke some about his life, filling in some of the blanks I had about him. I responded in kind with some stories of my own. Hesitating for a bit, he led the conversation back to the elephant in the room. Those 'swimming lessons' he offered to me.

I quietly inquired about his note from a few weeks ago. He responded that he would be willing to instruct me some, as long as I was ready, that is. "As long as we take it slowly," I responded with a soft smile.

What I hadn't mentioned so far was what he wrote on the back of the note. I didn't see it at first, with everything going on.

He had left a profound quote for me.

"Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying 'I will try again tomorrow'."

The quote was attributed to a Mary Anne Radmacher. I'd have to check her works out later.

I recited it back to him, tears once again filling my eyes as I informed him that the quote had given me the strength I desperately needed during my recovery. I had dutifully memorized it, and recited it to myself every morning. Today was no exception. He smiled again, saying he was just happy that it had inspired me.

"But no lessons today. Just sit and watch the sunset with me, please?" I managed to sniffle. He nodded, falling silent as we stared into the bright violets and orange of the horizon left behind by the setting sun. He tentatively put his arm around my shoulder a few minutes later. Just held me quietly, not saying anything.

But some things don't have to be said out loud. Simple gestures can speak volumes.

****

A couple more weeks went by before we got together for the first of those lessons he had offered to me. I agreed to practice with him in that small lake behind my parent's house, citing that I would feel safer in a small body of water. He concurred.

I came out the front door to greet him wearing my finest two-piece bikini. As I closed the door behind me, I saw his truck rolling down the long dirt driveway, a plume of dust rising in its wake. He parked and stepped out of the driver's seat, wearing only a pair of blue swimming trunks, and some faded leather boots. I took in the sight of his chiseled abs and well-toned legs and nearly swooned on my feet!

I really hadn't noticed his flawless physique until now, and secretly hoped that he found me somewhat attractive in return. Turns out, I didn't have to worry about that. He seemed flabbergasted, his mouth hanging open for a moment at seeing me in my bright pink swimwear. Shaking his head a moment later, he walked over to me with a cordial greeting, which I returned. We began walking toward the lake, chatting as we always did about light subjects.

But I could tell by the way we seemed smitten with each other, that swimming wasn't gonna be the only thing being 'taught' today. As it turned out, despite the cool water, we'd soon be sweating.

As we began, his instruction went from firm and serious to gentle and playful. Soon, we were splashing each other furiously, giggling like schoolchildren. All pretense of instruction discarded, I suddenly swam over to him and gave him a fierce hug, sobbing again as I thanked him again for saving my life, and also for giving me the confidence to get back in the water.

Then I called him out for not telling me sooner that he was crushing on me hard. He went silent for a moment, then merely nodded. I chuckled playfully as I then kissed him firmly, our tongues finally introducing themselves to each other, darting frantically in an erotic dance.

We waded back to shore hastily and I playfully removed my bikini top. He hesitated briefly, then removed his shorts. We lay down together and made passionate love for the first time, right there on the sandy bank of that lake.

Afterward, as we lay in post-coital ecstasy, I realized that he had already confessed his love for me. Not with words, per se.

He had already told me in his own way.

That day that he rescued me. Rendering aid to a girl he didn't even know. Sitting in my room until I had recovered and felt safe. His gentle touch as he draped his arm around me on the porch that night after dinner. And even now, as we recovered from our sensual encounter.

He didn't just save me from a watery grave.

I was drowning in loneliness, too.

And just like that, he showed up out of nowhere, when I needed him most. Everything I've ever wanted in a partner. Everything I needed. He helped me stay afloat, in more ways than one.

****

We married two years later, to the day, after the ordeal that had changed me forever. A lovely beach wedding, only a few hundred feet from where I was almost lost. We had a massive bonfire going nonstop until midnight. It was a wonderful celebration.

Soon after, I gave birth to a lovely baby girl with sapphire colored eyes. My husband doted on her endlessly, as he had with me before.

As the years slowly passed, our love deepened into something more profound. The butterflies slowly drifted away, but bliss settled into their place.

I eventually completely conquered my fear of swimming, thanks to his patient tutelage, and even became a certified lifeguard. Can you believe it? After everything, a lifeguard!

The audacity!

The pride I felt when I rescued my first victim was only matched by the joy I saw shining in his eyes as I taught our six year old daughter how to swim for the first time. It was worth every moment of dread that I had felt on that fateful day so long ago.

Some truths are universally apparent, if you know what to look for.

Some currents aren't malevolent.

Sometimes it's all right to get caught in the undertow.

****