As a mother, one of the most frightening things to ever happen to me was an afternoon in 1983. My ten-year old daughter, Carrie, and I were caught in a rip tide off Long Sands Beach in York, Maine.
There had been a strong storm somewhere out at sea the day before. A welcomed treat. Storms always brought unusually warm water to Maine’s beaches, widely known for their bone-chilling temperatures. The warm water always lasted at least a day.
The waves were uncharacteristically higher, too. From our blanket on the sand, we watched a number of teens on surfboards and anything else that floated, causing the lifeguard in his high white wooden chair to actually work for his money that day.
It was sunny, cloudless and very hot. The long expanse of beach was packed with sun worshipers with their beach chairs and blankets. Their children dodged the waves and dug in the soft white sand and I watched my two youngest daughters as they did the same.
Carrie turned to me after watching the surfers and asked if she could also ride the waves. She pointed to a small stand beside the lifeguard chair where she could rent a black canvas covered air mattress for an hour.
I was honest with her. She wasn’t old enough, or experienced enough to go out where the waves were breaking. They were a long way out and the waves were extra high ---she would have no idea what to expect, or what to do.
My husband reminded me I had been a lifeguard during the summers in high school. He would watch the other two girls if I wanted to rent a raft and double up with Carrie. Of course, Carrie was all for it.
(Hey, one hour, what could it hurt? Besides, there were no Danger, or Warning signs posted anywhere on the beach …)
What I knew about surfing would fit in a thimble, but I did know how to ride waves … small waves, that is. The two of us sat astride the air mattress, Carrie just in front of me. This left our arms free to paddle out to where the waves were breaking.
Right away, we caught two fantastic waves —the rides were phenomenal and Carrie was thrilled! We had just turned around to go catch a third wave when a closer wave blindsided us, flipping our raft over and us with it.
The water was swirling, twisting, and flipping us in every direction and I could feel it trying to pull me down as well as sideways! Eyes open, both arms reaching, grabbing, trying desperately to get some kind of grip on Carrie —I could see her through the bubbles being violently tossed one way, then another like a rag doll.
I put panic on hold to deal with later and finally managed to snag one of the straps of her bathing suit and I yanked hard, pulled her to me, and we surfaced for air. She coughed and sputtered but when I asked if she was okay, she assured me she was.
The raft was long gone. Quickly, I laid Carrie on my stomach and swam the both of us hard, backwards, staying parallel to the beach, in the direction of the lifeguard stand, while the waves slowly pushed us closer and closer to shore. Then, I realized I could stand.
The first thing I did was give the lifeguard a piece of my mind. There was no warning sign posted anywhere to warn of the riptide danger! It would still be up to the individual swimmers and surfers whether to get out of the water, or not, but at least they would be aware of the danger!
I settled Carrie on our beach blanket, kissed the top of her head, and finally allowed the panic I had put on hold to come out where I could deal with it … and I cried.
**Note: Had I known there was a riptide going on that day, I NEVER would have put either of us in danger by going out on that raft. No one has any business even being in the water during a riptide.
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There's a fine line between trauma and tragedy. We walk--or swim--that line, whether we realize it or not, most of our lives. My husband likes to call it "dodging bullets." I'm glad you and your daughter dodged a big one, that day.
My memories of boyhood tell me that the surest guarantee that I and my fellow's would do something foolish and dangerous was a prudential admonition from the wiser adults.
With sufficiently strong preventive counsel, there was little that we the little people wouldn't attempt.
We routinely swam out past the last barrel. When adults were away or distracted we discovered hidden war souvenirs, as as we took turns being Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne, I nearly severed young Robin of Locksley's thumb with a quick slash of my sword. We would enter burned out buildings and jump across the remaining roof joints, saved from disaster only by being to light to collapse them any further.
I used to love staying with my cousins in the coal mining country of southwestern PA. There we would enter flooded, abandoned shafts (an activity in which I persisted as an adult, but in old iron mines). One of the most foolish and perilous of our games was to enter the abandoned coke ovens, which had a well deserved reputation for sudden collapse. Luckily here I am responding to you as a survivor and a stodgy promulgator of rules and warnings to another generation of young immortals.