The Rescue

Kirk Coningham

The surfer paddled hard for the last wave of the day. He had been out for three hours and had promised himself "one last wave" five waves ago. Nothing new, he often broke his promises, especially to himself.

When he first paddled out it was a timid three-foot. Now the waves towered over him like green black machines, pitching up and throwing a heavy lip. If the wind had blown from the beach, the waves would have curled over him, wrapping him in an arch of ocean, holding him inside the wave, suspended between elements, breathing and never more alive.

As it was he wasn't complaining, he was the only one out and it was pumping, "filthy" as the kids would say. He floated over the first swell of the new set before paddling hard into the next. The wave bucked and spat but he easily slipped out of its jaws, quickly standing high on the wave and relishing the rush as gravity and tones of water combined to fling him down the line.

Today the sun had beaten him. The wave exhausted itself on the reef as he lay on the board, allowing the spent wave to carry him across the shallow lagoon and deposit him gently on the sand. He flicked his leg rope off, draped the thick rubber cord over the front of his board, and started towards his car. He was spaghetti legged, fresh and fatigued, smiling inside.

If it were a little lighter he may have noticed that his leg rope had been partially severed as it scraped across the coral on his final approach to the beach. He wondered about that. If he had noticed would it have made any difference to his decision? He decided it wasn't a major factor; someone was going to die anyway.

The sun had almost extinguished itself, boiling red on the horizon as the waves raced away from its scalding touch. In the pink half-light he noticed two people swimming strongly in a rip. There was no panic, just strong regular strokes.

"In for some exercise and don't want to swim out the back in the increasing swell," he thought.

He turned his back to the ocean and gingerly climbed the rock path to his car, mindful of his new board and cold toes. He heard a shout and turned to see the dim figure of a man reaching out to a woman swimming backwards in the rip. Their fingertips may even have touched before she was drawn quickly away. "Help, oh God, help!"

He jumped back to the sand and ran to the place were the guy stood in chest deep water, battling the current while searching for his friend. Pausing for a second to secure his leg rope he launched into the surf, paddling purposefully into the rip. The swell was picking up big time. He had to duck dive his board under two closeout waves before he was out the back.

He only just saw her. The dark round shape looked like a float from a crab pot until it grew an arm. He watched her take a large wave on the head and didn't see her come back up. He surfed in on a wave and kicked off close to where he had last seen her. It was getting very dark and messy. The water churned like a giant washing machine as the huge surf cracked on the reef.

He saw her body silhouetted in a wave as it lifted her and thumped her down. He paddled fast and grabbed a solid shoulder, struggling to pull her semiconscious form from the water and drape her across the board. Seconds later she coughed, gasped for air and moaned.

The board was short and light, designed for speed not floatation. He tried to paddle with the dead weight of the girl in front of him but got nowhere fast.

A wave crashed over them and the girl's relief turned to anguish as she realised she was far from safe. "I'm going to die, please don't let me go, please." He stayed calm and spoke softly to her, telling her to hang on hard to the board as another wave reared above them. As her panic rose he looked her in the eye and said, "You won't die. We are fine. I promise you."

They were now on the edge of the rip and he could feel it dragging them out into deeper water. That would have been fine except for the closeout waves that continued to pound across the channel. He couldn't risk losing her in the channel.

He positioned her face down lengthwise on the board and pointed her to shore. As a big wave broke he grabbed her around the thighs and kicked hard into the wave which obliged by carrying them in a few more meters.

They were close to being safe. If he undid the leg rope and pushed her into the next wall of white water it might just carry her safely to the lagoon. But she was completely exhausted, could she hold on to the board?

If she could not, he rationalized, this would see them lose the board and with it any hope she had of surviving. It was risky and he was also close to exhaustion, would he have the strength left to swim in without the board?

The waves were eight-foot solid now, great black monsters rising from the deep. Despite the wicked cross current dragging them towards the rip, the last wave had carried them just shallow of the impact zone. Another two or three waves like that would see them both to safety. He decided to keep the board.

A ten footer smashed itself against the reef four meters in front of them and the surge of white water carried them bucking and rolling onto the edge of the lagoon. "One more wave" he thought, "and we are safe".

The wave was huge. "Good," he though. It would break further out and provide them with a rough and tumble ride into the lagoon and safety.

He had misjudged it. The heavy swell had increased the depth of water over the reef. A back wave radiated off the rock and coral, sliding under the huge incoming wave and stopping it from breaking for a vital few meters.

When it reached them, it jacked up high on the weight of the water blocking its path to the beach. He looked up, up, up at the towering five meter wall of angry foaming ocean that rose above them. Then it crashed down squarely on their heads.

He got a lung full of air before it hit. The girl did not. He relaxed his body and allowed himself to go with the wave. The girl and board were torn instantly from his grip as he was tossed end over end like a rag doll in a churning mass of black water. He felt the leg rope tugging on his ankle, felt it tighten to a shoestring, and then break.

When he finally got up for air he was almost in the lagoon. He could not see the girl or his board. He turned to dive deep under another huge wave, clinging with his fingers to the rock two meters down. The water surged over him and he surfaced. The current was carrying him into the rip again and he was exhausted. He was now swimming for his life.

He swam hard and dove through another two waves, gasping for breath each time he resurfaced. Another wave arched over his head and he let it carry him high on its face before digging in with his last strength to swim hard down the face. He tensed his body on the face and rode the wave. It carried him exhausted into the lagoon. He gulped in lungs full of air, but the tide of relief was checked by his thoughts of the girl.

His feet were torn to ribbons as he ran across the coral, through the chest deep water, desperately searching in the darkness for the girl. He saw her. She was at the water's edge. Half of his board lay next to her. His heart filled with relief. She must have held on to the board, he thought, and it had carried her to safety.

He was wrong.

She was floating. The ocean's claws put her down then snatched her back up, trying to tease more play from her lifeless form.

When he got to her side her lips were blue, her mouth open, one of her eyes was fully open and the other half closed. The eyes and the person behind them were dead. He dragged her up the sand and fell to his knees.

Sirens and lights entered the car park up the beach. He put his mouth to hers and blew. He could tell from the feel of her mouth that she was just plain dead and there was nothing anyone could do about that. He spat, then crumpled to the sand crying and coughing and cursing.

Her name was Carmel. She had come from Brazil with her boyfriend to surf. Carmel was a strong swimmer and experienced in the surf as was her boyfriend Carlos. They were laughing and playing when they dove under the first wave, but neither was prepared for the power of the rip.

The meat that was once Carmel was taken to the local hospital where Tim the surfer was also taken for repairs to his sliced feet and his wounded soul. She was pushed on a drawer into a refrigerated rack with a tag on her toe, and he was tucked into a hospital bed with a drip putting fluids and happy stuff into his arm.

Tim woke the next day to find out about Carmel: her name, her short life and her passions, from Carlos who had come to say his thanks and, perhaps, to forgive. Tim's life force plummeted and infection set in. Hospitals can be dangerous places for healthy people. The staph infection almost cost him his left foot.

Six weeks in hospital and the latest in antibiotics had saved his foot but not his spirit. He was about to be discharged when he met a young guy who had been transferred from intensive care to the ward two days previously. The kid was starting to lose the yellowness from his skin and was now sitting up eating lunch. The poor guy looked like he had been cut in half.

"Bloody hell mate," said Tim. "What did they do to you?"

"Just been in for some new parts," he said. "I thought I was a goner but they found me a new liver." He explained that he was finally out of trouble six weeks after the transplant. "Some poor girl who drowned, my dad now uses my old liver to wash the car," he smiled at his father.

Tim stuffed the last of his things in his duffel bag and turned to walk out on his nicely healed feet. The father stopped talking to his son as he walked past. The kid smiled and waved cautiously from the wrist so as not to disturb the drip.

The father caught Tim's eye, and not really knowing why, said "Thanks".