My little brood made a late afternoon trip to the beach last Saturday afternoon. Peg and the kids had already been there for a little while, but I caught up with them around 5:30 pm after running some errands, hoping to squeeze the last few rays of sunshine out of a fleeting summer weekend in Quogue. Earlier in the day, the flags at the beach club had been waving white -- advising that the surf was "calm" and thus safe for swimming. By the late afternoon, however, it was somewhat unclear whether that choice of flag was still appropriate.
When I walked down onto the sand, my little boy, Oliver, spotted me and immediately came scampering, breathlessly asking to be taken into the water. At five years of age, Oliver is well versed in swimming in pools and quite happy to play around at the water's edge at the beach, but still requires assistance and supervision in the ocean. Gazing up at the still-white flag, I said "sure," and agreed to take him into the water with me.
I took little Oliver by the hand and walked to the edge of the shore with him. The surf was clearly in some state of transition at the time and the waves were breaking a bit more forcefully than I'd have preferred but still -- the white flag was still flying. I looked around and spied two lifeguards still technically manning their perch, but clearly ready to close up shop for the day. Thoughtlessly, Oliver and I waded into the churning blue water.
Within seconds, a short-but-emphatic wave pushed up against us, knocking my little boy down. I quickly scooped him out of the roiling white water. He was sputtering and soaked, but still boasting a wide, cherubic grin. As the waters started to rise around us, I hoisted him up and continued in. Suddenly, I was very concerned. I could feel the tenacious tug of the tide beneath me and the volatile waves above. Oliver clung to me like a little koala, but was still giggling happily. A single step further, and I felt the shelf of sand I'd been walking on sharply drop off beneath me. The water quickly rose to my neck, and a sizable wave was suddenly bearing down on me and my precious little boy.
Life suddenly went into stark slow-motion. When the wave hit us, I was completely knocked under, desperately managing to maintain my hold onto Oliver, vainly trying to keep his little head above the surface and forcing myself not to panic. I felt my back and neck hit the shelf of sand, shells and rocks I'd just been standing on, and immediately struggled to right myself and get my head and my son's head back on the right side of the water.
When we broke the surface again, we were already much farther from the shore than I'd ever planned on us being. Oliver wasn't giggling any more, and suggested in a hushed little voice that we "go back and see Mommy." While attempting to head back toward the shore, another wave hit us from behind, but by then we'd managed a foothold and were largely in the clear.
I carried little Oliver back to our towel and dried him off, downplaying the fact that I was visibly shaken from the experience. I looked back at the lifeguard stand. I have no clue if we were genuinely in any danger during the course of those fleeting, frantic proceedings, but my heart was certainly beating at a new and rarified rate. When I finally put Oliver back down on the sand, he skipped off merrily to go pester his big sister, arguably oblivious to fact that he'd maybe just had a brush with drowning.
Learn from my mistake. Trust your eyes and instinct. Flags mean nothing,
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