Deep Calleth Unto Deep: A Solo Sailor's Nightmare
David Zaharik
Table of Contents
Introduction
By all accounts I should be dead. Frankly, I am very surprised I am not. What I experienced the night of September 6 tested my endurance and sanity in ways I never thought I could survive. Further, it tested my faith in God, in His existence and in His right to His own sovereign will.
I was tested physically, emotionally, intellectually and, of course, spiritually.
The fact that I am alive, by the grace of God, may be testimony to the fact that I passed the test. Perhaps. However, I deny those statements and attest that my survival is solely a testament to the sovereign will of God. I was in an untenable situation. No, more than that, an impossible situation. An insurmountable, impossible situation.
You see, I fell off a thirty-seven-foot sailing yacht while motoring on autopilot. I was alone. I did not fall into tropical waters near a shore but rather into the ice cold waters of the Strait of Georgia, British Columbia, Canada. I was almost five miles offshore. To add spice to an already complicated challenge, I was not wearing a life jacket.
Quite simply, I was dead. Humanly speaking, there was no way I could survive. In these waters hypothermia strikes very rapidly and is utterly debilitating. In fact, most people do not last an hour in these waters. Life expectancy is anywhere from fifteen minutes to two hours maximum. Assessing my position, I knew right away I would be in the water for well over three hours. In fact, I thought the only way I would get out of the water was when someone pulled my dead body out. I knew I could not survive. It was simply impossible.
But I did.
This is my story. It is a spiritual journey where I expose my weak faith and vindicate a loving, merciful God.
He had His reasons for putting me in the water. For over three hours, we talked about those reasons. Some of those I share with you, and some I don’t. I know why I was there, but I do not know why I am alive.
Why am I alive?
“And none can keep alive his own soul” (Psalm 22:29).
My Journey Begins
“Hast thou entered into the springs of the sea? or hast thou walked in the search of the depth? Have the gates of death been opened unto thee? or hast thou seen the doors of the shadow of death?” (Job 38:16-17).
It is a glorious morning. As I awaken September 6, 2003, I stretch and enjoy the warmth of my down comforter. Ah, the sweet comfort of waking on my yacht. I stay in bed, luxuriating in the warmth, listening to the silence and moving in rhythm to the boat. Finally I get up, get dressed, put the kettle on for coffee and decide to motor out of the harbor to anchor in the shallow waters off Sidney Spit.
I drop the anchor in Sidney Spit and bob in the water, hoping to relax in a little seclusion. I breakfast and watch the activities of other arriving boaters who obviously have the same thought. I absolutely regale in the fresh, late summer morning. The crisp air and the bright sunlight reflecting off the dark green waters seem to make the coffee more aromatic and the strawberries mixed in plain yogurt sweeter.
As the hours slip by, the bright morning begins to slowly transform into a cloudy early afternoon as a series of thundershowers roll in from the south. The drop in barometric pressure accents the atmosphere with what I perceive to be even fresher, cleaner air. I inhale deeply, allowing the salt air to caress my senses. As I motor back to the harbor, I take note that these are the first rains in several months to bathe southern British Columbia and the Port Sidney marina. It feels good.
Although I had planned on departing at noon and certainly no later than 2:00 p.m., I wait as torrential rains pelt the water and deck of EspŽrance, my Beneteau 361. I climb into my bright yellow survival suit and don my Tilly hat. Stepping into the cockpit, I erect the bimini. This canvas awning gives me some protection from the rains while I am in the cockpit and at the helm.
Time is slipping away. I want to arrive in Point Roberts by dark, and now as 3:30 p.m. is quickly approaching, I begin to make haste to depart. With the bimini secure, charts in place, and extra gloves, hat and binoculars placed close at hand, I make the decision to depart.
As I slip out of Port Sidney marina and slide into the open ocean, I begin reviewing the nice evening before that I had with an acquaintance from work, Captain Howard Chase and his wife Allison. Although Howard had retired almost a year ago, I sailed over to Sidney to share an evening with him as a way of saying thank you for the time we worked together when he was my manager in Air Canada. We had an evening of laughter, reminiscing of the time we flew together, did check rides together and even sang together . . . shaking my head and chuckling as I recalled the singing . . . it was during a check ride.
Although several thunderstorms had rolled through the area leaving the air cool, the sea is relatively calm and the winds extraordinarily light. With a roll of thunder, forked lightening continues to flash off in the distance to the north. To the south I see another storm cell quickly approaching. The survival suit will stay on as will the Tilly hat. Having to wear glasses for distance, the brim of this Canadian invention, the floating Tilly hat, keeps the few raindrops that sneak under the bimini to a minimum.
Smooth Sailing
The sea is smooth and the traffic is light. I head off towards the north choosing a very direct route toward Active Pass. Phoning home, I let them know that I am on my way and arrange to speak again around 5:30 p.m. when I calculate I will be entering Active Pass.
The next several hours ghost by serenely as the beauty and majesty of the Gulf Islands capture my imagination and senses. Several B.C. ferries send low, gentle, rolling swells under the bow of EspŽrance and I delight at the surge of the hull in perfect rhythm to the roll of the swells. The bow wave sends water droplets cascading dozens of feet to the side over the glassy green water. This is my first sail south of Satellite Channel and the newness of the sights and the delights of the intricate coastlines lure my consciousness into dreams of future cruises through the area. Yes, sailing at its best . . . well, motoring at its best anyway.
The arranged time of 5:30 p.m. arrives, and I phone home to let the family know that I am indeed entering Active Pass, on course and on time. I should be in Point Roberts by 8:00 p.m.
As I head toward the north entrance to the pass, I cut across toward Mayne Island. Rounding the tip of Mayne, I pass the lighthouse on Georgina Point closely and see an abundance of activity. Against the dark green background of the island, the large white tent with many people milling about looks the perfect compliment to the bright white and red lighthouse. I speculate that this must be a wedding reception and marvel at the choice of this beautiful setting.
Once clear of the lighthouse and away from the entrance to the pass, I dart below to confirm my course on my Global Positioning System chart plotter, an incredibly accurate satellite navigation system. As I scan the electronic chart, I make a mental note to add about 15° to my course to head off further east toward Lily Point rather than directly at the entrance to Point Roberts marina. This will keep me well clear of the ferry lanes and allow me a comfort zone of navigation. While noting this, I check the distance and my speed — 10.42 nautical miles to the marina, and speed over the ground, just over 6 knots (about 7 mph). A quick calculation tells me that it will take me about another hour and forty-five minutes to reach my destination. It’s now about 6:00 p.m. I will be early in Point Roberts and beat sunset by about twenty minutes.
With gloriously calm seas and no wind, I am becoming very warm in my survival suit. I decide to take it off and put on my polar fleece jacket instead. I go below and change. As I climb back up through the companionway, I look left into the aft cabin at the closet where I keep my life jackets. A thought goes through my mind and I question whether I should put one of the jackets on or not. It is a weird thought, more like a statement — something like, “Put your life jacket on; you are going to need it.” I glance out at the ocean . . . absolutely calm . . . I shrug and leave the jacket in the closet.
My gurgling stomach reminds me that I have not eaten for a few hours. I’m quite hungry, so I go back down below and take some cold soup out of the refrigerator. I don’t bother warming it up and begin eating it while taking in the serene scene before my eyes. Dusk is descending upon my little world. The sun is lowering with reds, pinks and oranges sweeping across the sky to the west. The sea is an unusually calm, dark green, undulating with the currents and the memory of the passing of the thunderstorms. The air is relatively warm, almost soft. Funny that in such a serene scene of peace, I begin to think of personal problems.
Gloomy Reflections
I begin to reflect on many of my life’s challenges and difficulties. I think of my career, and the weight of the past few years begins to rear its ugly head in my mind. My dream career as an airline pilot now appears to have been all but ruined by gross mismanagement. I ponder the loss of my job should Air Canada go broke.
I imagine the difficulties I may face with the huge reduction of salary now projected. I contemplate the loss of thousands upon thousands of dollars in my retirement fund. In fact, the fund may be completely wiped out. I ask myself what I have been working so hard for if everything is about to be erased. I find it hard to comprehend that with a stroke of a pen, some executive can take everything I have worked so hard to achieve and smash it into oblivion.
I think of EspŽrance, this beautiful yacht that I have so enjoyed. The yacht I waited over twenty-five years to buy . . . I sigh and contemplate the ugly reality. I have to sell her. I’ll lose my shirt financially. The thought weighs heavy on me.
I continue to think of the challenges I face, having to travel 1800 miles to Toronto to work. I think of the enormous amount of effort and time I have put into commuting from my home in Vancouver. All because I love my job. I love flying and I love flying big jets. Now, because of the merger with Canadian Airlines, I am losing my position as a captain on the Boeing 767. It doesn’t seem fair to me. I have held this position for over three years, well before the merger was even contemplated. I sigh and think of the alternatives . . . there aren’t any. I will sell the boat and maybe my house too.
I consider the struggle I have had at home since we moved back from Toronto. Another weight.
I think of security personnel around the world who, since the hijacked planes which destroyed the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, began treating pilots and flight attendants like we were the ones who committed the attacks. Were we not among the victims? I have had tweezers and nail clippers confiscated like they were bazookas and rocket launchers. I have had security personnel physically search me, stating, “We don’t want you to have anything that will give you control of the aircraft.” Where is the logic? Won’t someone explain to these people that as the captain of the aircraft I am in control! I don’t need tweezers to commit terrorist attacks; I just need them to pull my nose hairs! I shake my head with incredulity.
As I stare out over the majestic coastline, my somber mood deepens and I feel a deep, searing pain as I think of my colleagues who perished in the terrorist attacks of September 11. The thoughts horrify my very soul. I imagine the violent realities . . . slit throats . . . innocent men and women, bleeding to death . . . gasping for life . . . because of some zealot. Snorting in disgust, I recall that these acts were all done under the guise of religion. How pathetic . . . no wonder no one wants to hear about God these days . . . what a crazy world.
"Lord, What's Going on?"
With a heavy heart, I begin to speak out loud in prayer: “Lord, what’s going on?”
Then I whisper, “I’m not happy. I can’t hide my sorrow from you. My outward appearance can fool men, but I can’t fool you. You know, Lord, if I were to die, things would sure be easier. Why, the insurance alone would set the family up perfectly. Yeah, I know, I have responsibilities . . . so what . . . Lord, the kids are old enough now. I’m gone so much already, they wouldn’t even notice.”
These are fleeting, dark thoughts obviously brought on by the incredible pressures of a life in an airline industry gone astray. I know I don’t want to actually do myself in. I know I am just feeling sorry for myself, but in a flood of self-pity, I press the point, “I want to die; just kill me. What’s the point of this exercise? I know you hear me. I know Moses, Elijah and Jonah all asked to die, so I’m asking too. Let me die. Okay?”
I shake my head and take a deep breath. My soul has been darkened with these foreboding thoughts. Sadly, the evening seems to have taken on a different color.
Having finished the soup, I lay aside the container and begin to straighten up the boat to lessen the work upon arrival. Fenders in place, docking lines secure, jib lines neatly coiled and half-hitched to the pulpit. The activity helps me change my train of thought and I lighten up a bit. Smiling, I look over EspŽrance with a sense of satisfaction. She’s ready to dock.
Without Warning
Now, to straighten up below deck. I go below and turn on the navigation lights, and then I strip the bedding, bringing some of it up on deck to fold so I can continue keeping a proper watch. I clamber onto the starboard stern quarterdeck and fold the pillowcases and top sheet. Again I slide below and pick up the bottom sheet, quickly reassuming the position on the starboard quarter.
In order to secure my footing on the aft deck, I take a stance facing sternward. With my legs astride, I place my left foot on the deck and my right foot slightly raised by the starboard jib winch. I let the sheet flap in the wind. I chuckle at the billowing sight while I brace my left knee against the starboard lifeline. Lines secured to keep sailors on board.
Suddenly, without warning, the lifeline comes loose and flies aft. At first I don’t know what has happened. The sudden loss of my bracing line causes my knees to buckle, and as I struggle to keep my balance, my mind races while I try to comprehend the cause . . . did the line break? Has the pelican clasp failed?
Slowly, as I fight gravity, I begin to lean to the left out toward the water. It is a slow, agonizing several seconds as I feel my body twisting left. I let go of the sheet and reach with my right hand to grab hold of something, anything, to regain my balance. The inertia is too great. I continue this sickening, contorting twist and slowly, ever so slowly, I rotate backwards and fall into the frigid waters of the Strait of Georgia.
A pang of terrifying anxiety surges through my body as I anticipate the fall. It is instantly replaced by the grip of the icy reality into which I have plunged. Down I descend into a cold, green, ethereal world of bubbling terror. Ice cold water instantly soaks through my warm, comfortable clothes. I rush to the surface screaming at the top of my lungs, “NNNOOOOOOO!” Instantly I kick off my rubber yachting boots and tear off my polar fleece jacket, both of which are causing me to sink like a stone.
In a mad sense of desperation, I start to swim toward EspŽrance. Recognizing quickly the futility of chasing a boat travelling over six knots, I watch as EspŽrance, the boat that had given me so much pleasure, my personal sanctuary, motors unknowingly away toward the horizon.
I am dumbfounded. This isn’t real . . . It can’t be! Again I scream “NOOOOOOO!” I stare at the stern of EspŽrance, her name lit up with the navigation lights I had just turned on. EspŽrance . . . French for “hope.” I watch my hope motor off into the night.
“Forget the boat,” I yell. And with my mind racing, I instantly begin to take stock of my situation. In a sense of gross disappointment and some anger, I look toward Point Roberts. She’s at least seven miles away. I think, No way. I will never be able to swim there. I spin around in the water and face Mayne Island . . . approximately five miles away, and my heart freezes. What I see, I don’t want to register in my mind. No way. I will never be able to swim there either . . . LORD!
I don’t know why I think of it or how I recall the fact that my cell phone is in my pocket, but in a one-in-a-million chance that the telephone is still working I yank it out of my pocket only to see a blank screen. Dead . . . just like I am going to be in a few hours.
Without Hope
Having so recently eaten my supper and now hyperventilating with the cold water and the momentary explosion of exertive energy, my stomach is in knots. Again I take stock. What can I do? I look at my watch and note the time, 6:37 p.m. Well, in less than two hours, I think EspŽrance will be smashed on the breakwater of Point Roberts or on the reef off Lily Point. It really doesn’t matter now, does it? Sighing, I look toward Mayne Island and grasp the impossibility of what I now face.
It is beginning to sink in. I allow my cognitive senses to grasp the fact that I am about to die. I think to myself, Well, here it is. The time everyone fears. Death, the king of terrors. The time humans speculate about, contemplate and fear. What will it be like? Now I get an hour or two to think about it. I am going to die. Very simply . . . tonight, I am going to die.
I take a deep breath and think, September 6, 2003: I am forty-five years old and I am going to die tonight. “O sweet Jesus, I could use your help.”
“O my God, take me not away in the midst of my days” (Psalm 102:24).
I try for a moment to swim front crawl. The cramp in my stomach is too great for me to put any effort into the swim. Moreover, I am still hyperventilating from the initial shock of the cold water and the stark reality of my grave situation. Rolling onto my back, I let the reality really sink in. Looking up through a cloudy, darkening sky, I began to pray: “Lord Jesus, I could really use your help right now . . . Lord, this would be a really good time to prove your existence to me . . . O blessed Jesus, sweet Jesus, divine intervention would really be appreciated . . . a boat . . . a log . . . anything.”
Silence. A disappointing silence.
Rolling onto my front, I think of hypothermia and how quickly it will affect me. I think of doing the dead man’s float and remaining still to preserve body heat. Remain still to preserve body heat? How long am I to do that? Here I am in the middle of nowhere, without hope, and I’m to do the dead man’s float? I’ll be doing the dead man’s float alright . . . when I’m dead.
Understanding my dilemma very clearly, I resolve out loud, “Lord, with all due respect, if you are going to take me home this evening, I am not going without a fight. I will swim until I can swim no more. I will continue this fight until I am unconscious and die or I am on land.”
With these prayers on my lips and thoughts in my heart, I set off doing a slow breaststroke toward what might as well be Honolulu.
Off Come the Pants
In very short order I recognize that my progress is quite slow. I sense the burden of my pants. They are dragging me to a snail’s pace. I think about any warmth they are giving me and weigh that against the speed that I hope I will gain without them.
As these thoughts course through my cold, slowly numbing brain, I remember a lifeguard technique I learned thirty years earlier. I remember training at the YMCA with a lifesaving team called the Flying Sharks. Under the demanding yet loving coaching demeanor of Tom Smith, I learned how to use common pants as flotation devices. In fact, I remember Tom, in his coaching voice, encouraging me to keep doing these most exhausting maneuvers, yelling over the commotion in the pool, “Come on, Zaharik. One day this will save your life!”
My decision is made. Off with the pants. Treading water I tie knots in the ankles and lay the pants out in front of me. On my back, the pants are facing me with the waist up. I heave them in an arch over my head, hoping that the technique will really work, filling the legs with air. As the pants splash down behind my head, I sink beneath the cold water once again. I pull on the waist and I am pleased to find resistance, resistance caused by an inflated leg. Only one?
Disappointed, I do it again.
With mind-bending exertion, I throw the pants in what will become an all too familiar arch again. Again only one leg. Then I remember. I have a hole in the left knee . . . “Oh for crying out loud,” I exclaim. “Why do I always have to wear pants with holes in them?” I laugh. The first laugh of many laughs during my night of deep desperation.
"Just Do It!"
With one pant leg full of air, my left hand holding the waist, I nestle the inflated leg under my chest such that my head can rest on top. With a resolve that had to come from the bottom of my soul . . . from the deepest recess of my being, I scream at the top of my lungs, “JUST DO IT!” With that, I start the long swim in the direction of Mayne Island.
As my stomachache subsides, I begin the first of what will be thousands upon thousands of kicks and strokes.
So here I am, about five miles from the nearest shore, in 15° Celsius, 59° Fahrenheit water and no life vest. What can I do but focus and swim. Swim and focus. Keep moving and keep swimming.
Oh, time to fill the pants again. Over onto my back . . . breathe, breathe, heave . . . down under the water, puuuullllll, pop up to the surface and breathe. Stroke, stroke, stroke, kick, kick, kick.
Again I turn my thoughts to the Lord. Lord Jesus . . . really . . . I really could use a helping hand. I scan the horizon for any hope of salvation. Any hope. None. Sigh, stroke, kick, stroke, kick, stroke, kick . . . keep moving, keep kicking, keep pulling, keep swimming. On my back, heave, grunt, underwater, puuullll, back to the surface, breathe, hang on for dear life.
Yes, dear life! The life that seemed so fleeting and moment by moment was slipping from me. A life that I have tried to grasp hold of . . . a life that is not mine to hold. I am not in control . . . I never was.
An hour has gone by. A whole hour. Have I moved? I lost my glasses in the fall, and now I can’t see into the distance clearly. Nothing on Mayne Island gives any indication to me for hope. Nothing looks closer, and I have no idea whether I have made progress or not. I could be caught in a current. What was the tide doing? Oh, this is stupid, I think. It is futile. I am so cold . . . no, I’m okay, I’m okay . . . keep going, Davie boy, keep swimming . . . I’m okay . . . I don’t feel no stinkin’ cold.
"Lord, Please"
“Call upon Me in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify Me. . . . Hear me, O Lord; for Thy loving-kindness is good: turn unto me according to the multitude of Thy tender mercies. And hide not Thy face from Thy servant; for I am in trouble: hear me speedily” (Psalm 50:15; 69:1617).
Sigh. As I swim, thinking about my hopeless situation, I again begin to pray: “Lord Jesus, your Word encourages me to call upon you in the day of trouble . . . help, Lord! I thought you would help me; I thought I could trust you; I thought when I needed you in my deepest hour, I would see you and you would help . . . me . . . Lord. Aren’t you going to?”
Silence. Silence. Kick, stroke, kick, stroke, kick, stroke.
Then, suddenly, a deep mental impression seems to descend upon my conscious mind. No vision, no angel, no light beam from heaven, no voice . . . just a very, very strong impression, as if to ask, “Is this what you wanted?”
“What?” I reply.
“What? Did you not just ask for this? You know why you are here. Did you not just moments ago tell Me you wanted to die?”
I embarrassingly whisper, “Yes, Lord, but I didn’t mean it. I was ranting like a fool, speaking like a fool, feeling sorry for myself.”
“A fool doesn’t speak with such conviction. Do you actually think that this is the answer?”
For a moment I choose to ignore the question and silently keep swimming, not able to bear my own thoughts. Then, after a few moments, with my voice cracking, “Lord, I don’t want to go home yet. I don’t want to stand before you as a fool . . . Lord, I am sorry . . . I don’t want to die . . . really I don’t . . . I don’t want to die . . . I don’t . . . ”
Silence, a pregnant silence.
Then calmly but with incredible power, as if God took a deep breath and stroked His beard, the impression continues: “David, I am not going to take you home tonight. You claim faith, yet do you trust Me? Think of all you have said this evening. Think of all you complained about tonight. Are you in control? Let Me ask you something: Do you trust Me? Do you trust ME? You ask Me for help and you are too blind to even see it . . . take a look around, son.”
So I do. I look in the direction of Crescent Beach and White Rock, I scan the horizon toward Mayne Island and Active Pass, then toward Vancouver Island all the way around toward the Roberts Super Port.
“What?” I ask.
“David, when was the last time you saw the Strait of Georgia so calm?” asked the Lord.
With a deep sigh, again I scan the water. It is uncanny. I do not recall ever seeing the Strait so calm. Ever. It has the viscosity of oil. A smooth, slightly undulating liquid.
“Oh.” I comment, “Sorry, Lord. I am looking for something more tangible . . . you know, a boat, a log, a whale to ride . . . I am blind at times . . . thank you.”
“Keep swimming,” the impression urges.
Kick, stroke, kick, stroke, kick, stroke, kick, stroke.
Delirium … Unconsciousness … Death
As I swim along, choking on the water, struggling through the fatigue, I begin to think about these thoughts and where they came from. Was this real? Who was I just talking to? God? The conversations were so real. I try to continue them of my own volition; I can’t. I choose to disregard them as my own imagination, and I scoff at the chance of survival. Survival . . . what a joke. I only talk about it in order to humor myself until the inevitable . . . hypothermic delirium . . . unconsciousness . . . and then death.
I do, however, continue to pray: “O Lord, I am so tired.”
The water is continuously in my face and in my mouth. Salt vapor is beginning to chafe my throat, and my bronchial tubes are becoming raw. Each breath is painful. A deep burn.
An hour and a half has gone by and I see no change in the scenery. Mayne Island is still a distant blob of a landmass. I roll over and look back toward the Tsawwassen Ferry Terminal and the Super Port, and I see their bright lights illuminating the darkening sky. I gaze over toward Point Roberts and in my mind’s eye I imagine EspŽrance smashing onto the breakwater at the marina about now. In fact, I even think I see flames.
Again I roll back onto my stomach and continue to swim. Swim? I don’t know if what I am doing can be called swimming. This contorted movement that may or may not be propelling me anywhere cannot be called swimming. One hand holding onto the waist of torn and inflated pants with a death grip while the other simulates the breaststroke.
My Death, My Funeral
I am so cold and tired. My neck is sore from constantly straining it back to keep my face above water, so I turn and lay my head to the side, on top of the inflated pants . . . as if the pants are a pillow. I begin to hum. Nothing in particular. I am surprised that no real tune comes to mind. No melody, no verse, no hymn . . . but I hum. The vibration is soothing to my ice cold head and face. My mind begins to think of home.
I think of my son Alexander, my daughter Rachel and my wife Scarlet. I see the children’s faces, stoical and stressed, sad and empty. I guess they know. Dad is dead. I have the weirdest image of Scarlet. I see her weeding the front garden as a police cruiser pulls up. She stands up as a policewoman approaches her and tells her that I am gone.
I think of friends I made over my life. I see friends in England and Sweden so clearly: finding comfort with each other, fighting with emotion, trying to stave off the tears. I think of many of my colleagues and friends at Air Canada. I see them gathering in their uniforms at what appears to be my funeral. Many are crying. I continue to hum. Hum, hum, hum. I close my eyes. The rhythm is so comforting . . . I don’t realize it, but I am slipping . . . it is getting quiet . . .
“NOOOOOOO; wake up! JUST DO IT! SWIM!” My heart is pounding in my chest . . . swim, swim, focus. Come on, Davie. Don’t do that again! Focus . . . come on, man . . . focus. Kyokushin focus. I stare ahead at my objective — tiny, fuzzy-looking cabins with their porch lights just coming into view. Yes, dusk is falling. Com’on, just focus.
Stroke, kick, stroke, kick, stroke, kick.
Reflections on Life
As my breathing calms from the scare of almost losing consciousness, I start thinking of things I had accomplished over my life. First, I’m thankful for all the lifeguard training . . . for all the good it is going to do as I die tonight, but at least it is keeping my head up at the moment.
I think of the years and years of karate training, yes, the Kyokushinkiakan, Japan’s strongest karate. Yes, work into pain and beyond, work into exhaustion and beyond. Kyokushin focus. Training to overcome yourself, not others. Good training, but this is ridiculous. Ironically I think of the translation of Kyokushin: “the ultimate truth” . . . Ha . . . I am facing the ultimate truth — the end of my life!
I think of my career. After a long grind, I had finally made my way into the left seat of a widebody jet. I have been a Boeing 767 captain for the last three years. I love flying overseas routes . . . sigh. Again I begin to think of how men from another company have taken my job. I am being demoted back to small domestic aircraft so they can have my job . . . Lord, is this fair? . . . yeah . . . fair, who cares now?
Humorously, I think of a book I just finished two days ago: John Maxwell’s inspirational leadership training book, Your Road Map for Success.
“Hey, Lord, can I ask you a question?”
Stroke, kick, stroke, kick, stroke, kick.
Laughing I ask, “What on earth was the purpose of me reading that book? Maybe I should have read Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea!” I laugh heartily, or as heartily as I can as cold salt water clogs my windpipe while I breathe long and hard, shooting water spray out my mouth.
Man, my throat hurts. A burn. A deep, deep burn. “O Lord, I am so tired.”
Don’t stop; just do it. Keep going. Stroke, kick, stroke, kick, stroke, kick. Breathe, David, come on, head up, breathe.
Time to fill the pants again. Onto my back, pants in position . . . only this time I notice some seagulls have joined me.
“Hi guys! Come to cheer me on?” The birds give their all too familiar cry and circle about ten feet or so overhead as if to inspect this most peculiar sea specimen. “Uuuugggh,” arms arching over my head, splash, down . . . darkness. Wet, cccccooold darkness, pull, surface.
Air, breathe. Stroke, kick, stroke, kick, the endless motion continues.
It’s 8:30 p.m. I think again of the evening’s events. I shake my head as I try to focus on the landmass ahead. The cabins and their porch lights now appear to be slightly larger than I last remember seeing. Oh, but so insignificantly, only a minuscule amount of difference. Hey, Davie, my boy, at least that is a difference! Oh who cares? It is hopeless. I am so tired. My groin is burning; my outer pectorals are screaming for a break. Again I change hands. Right hand now holding the pants and left arm swimming.
What Will People Think
A peculiar thought comes to mind. I know people will find my boat and my body. I begin to suspect that soon after my death a rumor will start . . . he killed himself . . . you know he wasn’t happy . . . it was suicide. I contemplate this for a moment, and I resolve, deep down, that I will fight even harder now. No way am I going to allow people to smear my name or my family with these slanderous rumors. Com’on, Davie; push. Don’t let these people win.
I think of my foolish lamentations just prior to falling off EspŽrance. No, no indeed, I do not want to die.
I am going to die. I just know I am going to die. I am going to slowly slip into unconsciousness and die. Well, I tried.
Stroke, kick, stroke, kick, stroke, kick, again the monotony and the rhythm lull me into a semi-trance and I feel unconsciousness creeping in. My peripheral vision becomes gray as I begin to slip into death. I see flashing stars before my eyes and my vision narrows even more . . . it’s quiet . . . “NNNNOOOOOOO! FOCUS; JUST DO IT!” . . . swim, man; don’t stop; you can’t stop. “O Lord, help me!”
“I am weary of my crying: my throat is dried: mine eyes fail while I wait for my God. . . . Deliver me . . . and let me not sink: let me be delivered . . . out of the deep waters. Let not the waterflood overflow me, neither let the deep swallow me up, and let not the pit shut her mouth upon me. . . . Make haste, O God, to deliver me; make haste to help me, O Lord” (Psalm 69:3,14-15; 70:1).
It is so dark. I am surprised. Behind me are the lights of the Roberts Super Port and farther out to the north, the lights of Vancouver. My city — where I was born, where I was raised, and now where I die.
I take the pants and think that perhaps I can make a few hundred feet or so on my back using them as a pillow for my head. This way I figure I will get some rest and a good change from the continuous frog kick to flutter kick. As I roll over and assume the new position, indeed a sense of rest pervades my body. Ahhh, it feels good. I even enjoy it momentarily. Relaxed, I close my eyes for a moment. I open them and look around. “Oh for crying out loud! I’m going the wrong way!”
On Autopilot
Back onto my front, stroke, kick, stroke, kick, stroke, kick. This is becoming wearisome. I look at my watch and realize that the fiftieth anniversary celebration is now over for my in-laws. “Hey, Happy Anniversary Jack and Lula. You won’t forget this one . . . guess what? I’ve set a record. I’ve been in this ice cold water for over two hours and I’m still alive!”
It’s 9:00 p.m., two and a half hours and I am still in the water. I begin to think of my tombstone. What would the epitaph say? David Bruce Zaharik; November 6, 1957–September 6, 2003. Loving Husband, Loving Father . . . Lousy Sailor. I burst out laughing, choking and laughing. I can’t breathe. I’m choking . . . breathe, Davie. “O God, I am so tired.”
I can no longer feel my arms. I can see my right arm still moving in the automatic mode. I become mesmerized at the sight of the phosphorescence twinkling around my body. Microscopic photo-plankton that glow eerily green with each stroke. I am entertained for a few seconds, but I sense my whole being has gone on autopilot.
Monotonous movements of senselessness. Why am I still trying? I only know my arms are still working because I can see them dimly as the phosphorescence glows and dimly lights up their outline. I can’t figure out how my left hand still has strength to hold onto the pants. In fact, although I can’t feel my arms or sense their movement, my hands are okay . . . weird.
I can no longer feel my legs. I know they are moving but I don’t know what they are doing. I can’t tell if they are just flailing away in senseless motion or if they are actually doing the frog kick. I just can’t feel them . . . aauuuuggghhh, now I feel them. I am seized with a cramp in my left leg . . . oh . . . this hurts! The pain tears at my physical form. I feel like a giant squid is pulling my limbs apart.
I slow momentarily and reach for my cramp, and then I instantly reject trying to find any comfort and yell, “Keep kicking! Keep going!” . . . I can’t . . . I just can’t. But I do. I don’t miss a beat.
Suddenly there is a splash beside me. I catch a glimpse of some sea creature diving below the surface. Weakly I cry out, “Hey, come back here . . . I want to talk . . . help me . . . I am going to die . . . don’t you care? . . . I’m dying.”
Rolling once more onto my back, I heave the pants over my head again, in what I think may be my last effort in survival. I know I can’t go on. I look up and notice that my seagull companions have not left their post. Their faithfulness has been a comfort. One, in fact, lands beside me, seemingly sensing that I am reaching the end of endurance, stamina, tenacity and hope. Assuredly, the end of life. They all seem to be telling me something. They seem to say, Keep going. “Com’on, Dave,” they squawk, “com’on; you’re so close.”
In the distance behind me I hear the familiar sound of the Canadian Coast Guard hovercraft. I look back towards the Point and figure that EspŽrance has been found, and I assume, of course, she is smashed to bits on the rocks. Squinting, I vaguely see the powerful searchlight of the craft sweeping to and fro searching for me. I think, “Sorry, guys; you are too late. You will find me, but I will just be a body floating facedown. This is the pits . . . so close . . . ”
"Lord, I Can't Do This Anymore"
The pain and the exhaustion have taken their toll. Hypothermia is my constant companion. I know I can’t go on. With an anguished soul and with tears in my eyes I roll onto my back one last time and I exclaim, “Lord, I can’t do this anymore!”
My leg is screaming in pain, yet I have not stopped kicking. Looking up at the birds silhouetted with the stars of the heavens, I cry, “Lord, if these seagulls are my guardian angels, tell them I am sorry . . . I’m sorry; I let you all down.” Barely able to continue breathing, I whisper, “I just . . . can’t . . . do . . . this . . . anymore. I am not going to make it . . . Sorry.”
I heard the gulls
I heard their cry
I heard them talk
I heard them sigh
I heard them ask
I don’t know why
But I will wait
Till the time is nigh.
Just as the words leave my lips, I hear, in the distance, waves hitting a shore. I force my groggy mind to perk up slightly and listen again. Splash . . . splash . . . I do, I hear waves against a distant shore again.
“Yes! YES! I am going to make it! Just do it, man!” A surge of energy prompts me to keep going.
Kick, stroke, kick, stroke, kick, over and over again. More of the same but now with some glimmer of hope.
I strain my eyes to see into the distance. I can’t tell. It’s so dark. A black mass of land silhouetted against a black sky. I think I can see the trees that crest Hall Hill . . . perhaps. This is encouraging. I prepare myself mentally for land. What will it be? A beach? I doubt it. Very few beaches around here. It will be a rock face of some form.
My mind races to a story I read of a 72-year-old American that fell off his boat off the coast of Costa Rica. He landed on the only minuscule beach available surrounded by massive cliffs. At least these cliffs shouldn’t be massive.
Kick, stroke, kick, stroke, kick, stroke . . . come on . . . where is it?
Land! I Can't Believe It
Land! I can’t believe it.
“He sent from above, He took me, He drew me out of many waters” (Psalm 18:16).
I am touching land. I am, unfortunately, not standing on it, but my hands are stroking the black granular form of sandstone. I caress it. Exhausted, I lay my face against the cold, black sandstone and regale in its texture while I continue to caress the rock with my cold, frozen palms. I swing my dead legs under me, and with ice cold toes I try to find a foothold on the cliff face. At the same time, my hands mechanically grope in the darkness for something to hold onto. I find a crevice with my left hand and then a bulge in the rock with my right — shoulder width apart. I brace myself for a climb.
I have never learned to rock climb, but I am about to have my first lesson. I look up into the darkness and I estimate about twenty-five feet at about a 60° slope. Hmmm. Can I do it? Do I have it? Is there anything left?
With a surge of an Arnold Schwarzenegger muscle flex, I scream as I pull my body out of the water for the first time in well over three hours. I slam my hands forward and upward, chasing them with my feet. Miraculously everywhere I place my hands I find an outcropping of rock to grasp, and likewise my feet. I rocket up the rock face of this cliff to the top, spin around and slam my bum down on the summit, laboriously breathing and coughing.
"Don't Stop … Keep Moving"
In an almost trance-like mind I gaze down at the water, panting like a deranged grizzly bear. I stop only for a moment to compose myself and my thoughts. I yell, “Don’t stop!” I wrench my pants off my shoulder where I had draped them for the climb. Like a marine soldier standing before his drill sergeant, I rip the knots open and slide the pants over my legs. I arch my back and slide them over my bum.
Standing now for the first time, my weary legs shake like a newborn calf’s. Facing the water, I do up the belt and the zipper, and then I look to my left. I make the motion to start walking toward the lights that I have been staring at for the past three hours.
Slam. Face first onto the rock. “Aarrrggg!” I slide in a horrifying slide toward the water again. Slamming my palms down onto the sandstone, I halt my fall against barnacles and rocks. The flesh of my left palm tears open. My chest is pounding and my body is screaming in gut-wrenching pain and exhaustion. “Get up . . . Don’t stop!” I again yell through my hoarse, burning throat.
I realize that my shaky legs no longer work. I have to crawl. Up onto my knees . . . I begin. Hands forward, knees follow. Over sandstone, crevices, logs, gravel, barnacles, seaweed. I move forward, possessed with accomplishing my mission. I know that if I stop to rest, I will die of exposure. I consider the predicament I now am in. I know that if I slip on these rocks I will plummet to my death. I marvel as I think of the irony. Imagine, I survive the swim only to smash my head open on the rocks below.
My mind is having a difficult time comprehending the contour of this beach. The shoreline continuously zigzags to and fro, changing direction seemingly thousands of times. Beach? This cannot rightfully be called a beach! Up and down, over rocks and logs. More rocks, more logs. Climb, descend. Climb, descend. At the tide line I carefully negotiate my way around driftwood that is level with my eyes. I do not wish to blind myself . . . I can barely see in the dark as it is; I don’t need a branch to tear out the limited sight I have.
"Oh, David, Now What?"
My heart is pounding so hard my neck is hurting. Suddenly the shoreline makes a sharp turn to the left. The inlet completely disappears into the black oblivion of the night. “O Lord . . . now what?”
Into the distant night I think I see a large log spanning the part of the inlet. It appears to be at least a dozen feet high or even higher. I clamber toward it descending, knowing I will have to climb up to it again to cross.
Crawling with unexplainable power and energy, I unsuspectingly place my hands on seaweed. In an instant I slip, my legs twist and I take a sickening plunge back into the black, cold sea once again. The shock of the cold water both startles and scares me.
With lungs already bursting and bronchial tubes aching, I noisily suck in a huge amount of air as I feel the icy coldness of the water slam my body back into the ugly reality that I so recently had escaped. Thankfully it is shallow. My feet hit bottom. With all my energy and whatever power my broken body has left, I thrust my legs downward and lunge forward toward the log and rocks ahead. I scale them like a water-logged cat scurrying back onto the cold, clammy reality called land.
“Don’t stop . . . keep moving.” My mantra has changed from “Just do it” to “Don’t stop; keep moving.” I know I must find help, or I will die.
I continue to pull my aching body toward the large log spanning the gap. I again climb the rocks to reach the level I need to cross what now looks like a gorge or ravine. Chest pounding and muscles aching, I look across. Wow. What a dilemma. If I slip, it is certain death; if I go to the left, I have no idea where I will go.
I make a decision. “That’s it. I’m going across.” I check the log for stability and dryness. To my delight, it is very dry. Thanks to God for the dry summer. I was afraid that it would be like so much of this majestic coastline — wet and slippery.
I straddle the log, knowing that my legs and balance would not be able to keep me upright if I tried to stand. Reaching forward I pull my bottom across the log. Reach, pull, reach, pull, reach, pull. I actually traverse very rapidly. Sliding down onto the rocks on the far side, I know I am getting close.
The terrain changes a little now. Barely, through the dark, I can see arching rock formations that reach up into a forested area. Further ahead I can see the dim glow of the light I have been searching for. Help. Safety. Warmth.
Don’t stop; keep moving.
Again I try to stand up and my legs, although still unsteady, work better now. I balance precariously on the arching rock formation and begin to trek in the right direction. Feeling the rock through my stocking feet is interesting. Almost comforting. I feel the softness of the thick sock, and yet I am able to grip firmly through them.
Nearing the end of the rock formation I step on some slippery portion and skid onto my knees. As I careen down the rock on my knees, I clutch hold of crevices with my fingers and I marvel that my fingernails remain intact. Finally I stop the slide and again begin crawling. Up over the rock and into some vegetation. Leafy, low-lying vegetation with leaves like those of a vine. I become quite cautious here, suspecting that there could be many crevices hidden in the rock. I don’t want to put my hand unexpectantly into a deep hole and snap my wrist or my arm.
Slowly I make my way to higher ground and I think I can stand safely without falling, so I stand. I begin a lumbering gate toward the light. A cabin or home is looming into view through the trees and I know I am almost to the promised land. Tree trunk to tree trunk, I grasp each tree with my outstretched hands for stability.
Behind me, without warning, the roar of the coast guard hovercraft echoes through the night as the vessel whips by the shoreline I had just negotiated.
“Too late, guys, but thanks; I’ll be seeing you soon, I’m sure.”
I continue my lumbering gate, looking ahead into the black night. Again, as suddenly as I began to move I am halted. I have walked face first into a black wire fence. I am stumped. I look left: As far as I can see the fence continues into the blackness of night. I look up: The fence is at least nine feet tall and is topped with barbed wire. “Why, I ask, does someone need a fence of this magnitude on such a remote island location?” I look to the right: The fence appears to go back down over the rocks, out over the ocean.
I was not to be stopped.
I grab hold of the fence and begin my descent back toward the water. Like a spider, I cling to the fence and inch my way out over the water to its end. Hanging some sixty feet in the air, I see that the fence does a 90° turn paralleling the shoreline. I know that if I slip or let go I will plummet to my death on the rocks below. Carefully I traverse the end and precariously keep clinging and reaching.
Several hundred feet ahead I see a staircase. Inch by inch I edge my way along the fence, hands grasping in desperation and toes seeking a sure foothold in the chain-link fence. Finally, I’m there. Cautiously I transfer my weight onto the railings of the staircase and gingerly climb over. My left leg is still throbbing from the aftereffects of the cramp. Laboriously, I climb the stairs that have the appearance of rising out of the sea.
Land. Again. Up the embankment and now toward the home.
I am on the porch now, filthy, wet, bloody and cold. I walk weakly around the home and find myself, although breathing hard, unable to call for help. I circle the house searching for a door. Finally I find the front door and ring the doorbell. Twice.
No answer. I can’t believe it. Lights on, windows open, car in the driveway, no answer. I contemplate kicking in a window or a door. I assess this idea briefly and think about my chances of bleeding to death if I slice an artery. I press on. I know that there are other homes close by. I know I will get help.
Onto the driveway and out toward the road. Good grief, a huge gate now! Thankfully the gate is built of large timbers with ample gaps for handholds and footholds. My left leg is throbbing from the cramp. I am careful, after I scale the gate, as I lower myself from what I guess to be at least a twelve-foot-high arch. “Man, of all the homes on Mayne Island, I have to happen upon Fort Knox.”
"Can You Help Me, Please?"
Thump, thump, thump, my stocking feet and laborious gate swagger in a determined rhythm toward the next home. As I make my way, I try to formulate what I am going to say. Help? Save me? Hello? Onto their driveway, past the open garage, onto the doorstep. I raise my hand to knock. Just as I tap the glass door, I see the occupant.
Looking at me with an astonished expression, he asks, “Good grief, what has happened to you?”
Simultaneously I ask, very politely, “Can you help me, please?”
Instantly the man swings the door wide open and ushers me into the foyer.
“I fell off my boat and swam to shore.”
“Where? In the bay in front of our property and you walked up the stairs?” the man queried.
“No,” I replied. “I fell off my boat over five miles offshore . . . I have been in the water for over three hours.”
“Oh my, YOU are the fellow the coast guard is looking for! Sit down!” Rapidly he undresses me while calling orders to his wife for hot water bottles and towels and for her to call 911. He introduces himself as Bob and his wife, Bonnie. Both are instantly spring-loaded into rescue mode. No sooner am I apologizing for my appearance than I find myself wearing Bob’s clothes.
I give Bob some phone numbers and he quickly telephones my wife. I hear him telling her I am safe. Bonnie, in the meantime, is wrapping me in blankets. I speak to Scarlet on the telephone. With quivering and stammering lips, I tell her that I am okay and that I think the lifeline broke. I am now shaking uncontrollably.
Bob asks me to stand and walk into his front room with him, but I can’t. My body has completely shut down. I marvel that after all I have been through, I can’t even make an effort toward something as simple as standing. With all my strength, what little there is left, I lean on Bob as he carefully lifts me and guides my frozen, shaking body into their front room.
Coast Guard to the Rescue
Bonnie continues on the telephone and now has a patch through to the coast guard hovercraft. Once more the telephone is handed to me. A man identifies himself as the captain of the coast guard vessel and asks me if I was wearing a life jacket. I tell him, “No,” and he marvels at the fact that I am alive and states that he looks forward to seeing me.
Before I know it, the ambulance arrives and medical attendants Brent and Bev take over. Very carefully these professionals assess my condition and begin to plan a transfer to the coast guard hovercraft now en route to Miners Bay to pick me up. I overhear much of their telephone conversation as they relay my vital statistics — blood pressure, heart rate and body temperature. I am astonished at my temperature — 30° Celsius, 86° Fahrenheit. That is 6° Celsius and almost 12° Fahrenheit below normal! Fatal cardiac arrests occur at 31° Celsius and lower. It is no wonder there is concern about my heart!
Both Brent and Bev continue to ask me questions regarding chest pain. I hear Brent on the telephone speaking to someone of the incredulousness of the ordeal I had come through, and in a sense of almost admiration he added, “Yeah, but you should see the great shape the guy is in.” Funny, I wasn’t feeling very fit at the moment.
Once assured that my vital statistics are stabilized, they begin my transfer to the hovercraft. Carefully I am lifted onto an ambulatory chair and strapped into place. Finally, although still very hypothermic and shaking like a leaf, I am laying down in an ambulance on my way — a lumpy, bumpy way — to the dock.
Upon arrival at Miners Bay, there is a bustle of activity, a quick transfer of stretchers, and the elite corps of Canadian Coast Guard professionals take me into their care. A smiling face introduces himself as Dan. As Dan quickly assesses the situation, he pats my thigh, looks up into my face and says, “A lot of divine intervention just happened on your behalf.” Leaning toward my face, he sighs, shaking his head and continues, in a whispered tone, “A great many prayers have been uttered for you.”
As I stare up into the night sky listening to these men labor over my care, the gurney slid on board. We pause momentarily at the entrance as the captain, who is watching from an upper rail says, “I can’t tell you how happy I am to welcome you on board . . . Welcome on board.” With that I slide into the bowels of the hovercraft and I am on my way home.
“Unless the Lord had been my help, my soul had almost dwelt in silence. When I said, My foot slippeth. . . . For Thou hast delivered my soul from death, mine eyes from tears, and my feet from falling. I will walk before the Lord in the land of the living. I believed, therefore have I spoken: I was greatly afflicted. . . . The Lord hath chastened me sore: but He hath not given me over unto death” (Psalm 94:17-18; 116:8-10; 118:18).
While I Swam, Others Were Busy
Behind the scenes, of course, a great deal of other activity was happening.
When I last saw EspŽrance, she was tracking perfectly on a 057 heading for the reef off Lily Point. However, while I was fighting for my life, another miracle was taking place. Unknown to me, in the middle of the Strait of Georgia, EspŽrance decided to play chicken with a 900-foot-long, deep-sea tanker, doing 25 knots. The captain and the pilot of the vessel were plotting EspŽrance’s track out of Active Pass. They watched closely as she continued on a collision course with them.
As I understand it, this huge ship took evasive action to miss colliding with EspŽrance. They called the VTS, Vancouver Traffic Services, a marine form of Air Traffic Control, if you will. Once they realized that the boat was not being piloted, they put out a Mayday on my behalf. They suspected I was either on board ill or dead or had fallen overboard. They continued to track EspŽrance’s course and gave the navigational data to the crew of the coast guard hovercraft. By the time the hovercraft found EspŽrance, she had motored right through the reef off Lily Point unscathed and was motoring into Boundary Bay.
The men boarded EspŽrance and dropped her anchor in sixty feet of water, calling upon the Canadian Coast Guard Auxiliary to motor her into the closest marina, which was, of course, Point Roberts. At anchor, EspŽrance was right in front of my home. When towed to Point Roberts, she ended up only feet from her slip.
Although a great deal of tension and stress coursed through my immediate family, the stress was shortlived. By the time the coast guard assessed the situation and all the necessary agencies had been notified, I was already on land. The first my family heard of the incident was when a police cruiser pulled up to my home and asked my daughter if she knew where I was. Rachel, home alone, responded with what she knew and then was informed that I was lost at sea.
A few quick telephone calls and the atmosphere of the anniversary dinner took a dramatic twist. These calls were being made just as I was knocking on Bob’s cabin door. Relief came for them quickly. For ten minutes the family assumed the worst, and then, miraculously, the dead called . . . by telephone, nonetheless.
Lucky or Not
Although much has been said about my strength and determination, I don’t see it that way. I did not have the strength or the determination to do this journey. No one does. I was in an impossible situation and I knew it. At least three times during the night I was about to lose consciousness and die. As you have read, I reached points during the night, especially the one around 9:00 p.m., where I knew I could not do it anymore.
Unequivocally, absolutely no way. Not another stroke, not another kick.
Many have said, with regard to my survival, “You are one lucky man.” Here again, I take issue with using the word “luck.” I don’t believe in luck. If I were lucky, would I not have stayed on board the boat? Regained my balance and remained dry? That would have been luck. So, then, was I unlucky that I fell? The accident was caused by my failure to check the pelican clasp when I boarded EspŽrance. If I had locked the pelican clasp properly and checked it like I should have, this accident would never have happened. As far as I am concerned, being unlucky or lucky has nothing to do with the events of the evening.
To emphasize my point, I would like to quote John C. Maxwell from his book, Failing Forward. “I don’t put much stock in the idea of luck. I think that usually things go well or not so well for people based on their actions — working hard, practicing self-discipline, remaining persistent. Add to that the blessings of a loving God, and you don’t need to think about luck.”
Yes, the blessings of a loving God. Had I had proper faith in God, had I had proper faith in what He told me at the beginning of the swim, perhaps I would have taken encouragement in that, but I did not. I am a realist. I did not believe that God was speaking to me. I knew where I was, I knew what was required and I understood human capabilities. I also clearly understood the realities of hypothermia. Without the grace of God, I did not believe anyone could swim over four miles in freezing water without a life jacket. I knew I couldn’t. I am very muscularly dense with low body fat. If I stop swimming, I sink.
Faith and Unbelief
No doubt, you see that I have some sort of faith in a divine being. Further, the fact that I refer to Him personally as the Lord Jesus should tell you that I am a Christian. Perhaps you are inclined to think, like those that have given me credit for the swim, that I too am an equally strong Christian. Again, not so. Perhaps I am a stronger Christian now, but that was part and parcel of the journey for me.
If I am such a spiritual man and strong Christian, why did I ask God to prove His existence to me? Although I believe in God and I believe the Scriptures, there in the dark corner of my soul lay unbelief. Believe me, my challenge to the Lord surprised me! Like the man in the Gospel of Mark, I too can cry, “Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief.”
Perhaps you perceive it to be weird that a Bible-believing Christian lacks faith. Was my request a lack of faith or was it a cry of desperation? Outside of faith, I have never met God. I believe His testimony in creation and believe absolutely that our existence is not random chance.
Without faith it is impossible to please God, for if you come to God, you must believe that He exists. I believe God exists. In desperation I wanted Him to reveal Himself and change my faith into a concrete, tangible reality. I wanted Him to visibly display Himself, if you will, so that I may have faith . . . a contradiction of thought, really. He did better than expose Himself, rather than removing my faith; He kept it and strengthened it.
My Conversations With God
So, there in the deep, I conversed with God. God, the Lord Jesus Christ. If Jesus were not God, why did He speak to me? Was this my imagination? No. I can now say, Unequivocally not. The impressions and conversations were too lifelike. There were pregnant pauses where the pauses should be, as if I was speaking to you. Further, I even tried to continue of my own volition. I couldn’t.
I am amazed at how the Lord dealt so directly with my thoughts. Although Christians espouse faith with their mouths, when God deals directly with you, it is a peculiar sensation. I am humbled to think that God Himself actually cares so much about me that He took a few hours out on the night of September 6 to talk to me, instruct me, comfort me, encourage me and, of course, love me. Even now, months later, it almost seems too surreal, and if I did not experience it myself, I would harbor unbelief that these things were so . . . but it is all true.
There is a Bible story of a man named Elijah who was facing depression and death.
God called him out to the mouth of a cave to speak to him and show Himself to him. What Elijah saw, however, was hurricane-force winds, then he felt the ground shake with an earthquake, and then a fire consumed the sky. The story says that God was not in the wind or the earthquake or the fire, but after all these things, there was a still, small voice. This is the voice of God. When you hear it, you know it . . . undeniably. I knew to whom I was speaking. I just chose not to believe it.
But even if you cannot accept this, the evidence should lay in the miracle of the journey itself. How many things worked in my favor, while at the same time tested me to the utmost extreme? Reread if you have to. My survival and the survival of EspŽrance should be miracles enough.
What about the sheer culmination of my abilities? Work hard, practice self-discipline and remain persistent. (In a sense, exactly what John Maxwell said about luck.) I am told in the Scriptures that I was chosen before the foundation of the world. Did God know that I needed to learn and accumulate these abilities to make this journey? Indeed.
God's Peace, Not Man's Fear
Notwithstanding all the previous comments, the most miraculous occurrence to me throughout the evening was the peace that pervaded my soul in the face of death. How can I explain the absolute peace that so enveloped me throughout the entire night? I confronted death, but I did so without panic, terror, fear, anger or even resignation at the thought of dying. I was, however, virtually positive that I would be physically dead by the end of September 6.
I am not speaking of a giving of myself over to the sense of the inevitable. That would be resignation. I never got to a place where I was just resigned to the fact I would die. If I did, I would have just given up. I didn’t. I was looking at the facts. As I have said, I knew where I was, to the tenth of a mile, I knew the water temperature and I understood hypothermia. I knew I was about to fight for my life. Yes, I was angry, but the anger I had was not at death; it was anger at the stupidity of the accident and the fact that I was not wearing a life jacket. I knew I was about to die, but I had no fear or terror, because I believe that my soul is saved for an eternal life with God after this life.
I know from faith in the Scriptures that my soul is saved. I believe that Jesus of Nazareth was and is the Son of God, and He made atonement upon the cross for my sins. I know that if you believe in the Lord Jesus Christ you will be saved. God says the blood of Jesus Christ cleanses everyone who believes. That includes me. God has only one way of dealing with sin according to His own righteousness, and that is by the sacrifice and death of Jesus.
In essence, all of the world’s religions can be boiled down to two — a religion of good works or a religion of faith. The Bible clearly states that it is by faith and not our good works that we are saved. It is faith in the work of Christ upon the cross. Nothing else.
I also know that if God had decided my life’s journey was over, then He would have taken me home. If, however, His purposes for my present life were not finished, then I would survive. That is His prerogative, not mine. Like I said in the story, I am not in control. That is why I had the perplexity of spirit. Was my journey really over? What had I accomplished for Him? In the depth of the deep, I did not know the answer to those questions. I do now.
I'm Sorry, Lord
So first and foremost I offer an apology to the Lord Jesus Christ. I did not trust Him when I should have. I threw His Word at Him in a challenge, yet He lovingly accepted the provocation and gently told me to “keep swimming.”
One of the many issues the Lord and I dealt with in the deep was that of trust. I hope that now I know I can trust Him against all apparent odds. TRUST: what an amazing word.
Truth at all costs
Relinquishment of the past
Unconditional love
Second chances
Total transparency
I thank Him for the multitude of times I heard His voice calmly say, “Keep swimming.”
What I find so amazing today is that during the past several months, when people hear the story, they turn and say things like, “Well, whoever it was,” or, “Yes, well, someone or something helped you.”
May I Ask You Something?
May I ask you something? Would you confront death, face to face, and have no fear? Can you say honestly that you know you are saved and will pass through the transition of death into the presence of a just and holy God . . . without fear?
I spoke to Jesus. I spoke to God, my Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. The One who became a man and died upon the cross so I would not have to. I did not speak to a universal force, a god presence, or an angel. I spoke to God Himself. He personally took an interest in my plight, and I truly believe He ordained the meeting. If you recall, He told me to put my life jacket on because I was going to need it! I didn’t listen. He lovingly wanted me to have that assistance while we spoke. He also told me I would survive. Again, I didn’t listen.
Learning Jacob's Lesson
In the Book of Genesis there is a story of a man named Jacob, with whom I can identify completely. He too had a night of private conversations with God. I believe that everyone who desires to live righteously and for God will have a night of trial. God wrestled with Jacob . . . in the same sense God wrestled with me. The parallels are interesting.
Jacob was alone. So was I. All distractions had been removed. God had my undivided attention. Jacob desperately wanted to receive what God had for him. He cried that he would not physically let go of God until God had blessed him. Likewise I wanted to know what God had for me. Jacob was broken by God. During the wrestling match, God reached down and touched Jacob on his hip in such a way that he limped for the rest of his life. Jacob is seen leaning on a staff for support after this. This was for Jacob’s own personal growth. I too must now lean upon the Lord.
Notice that it is God who wrestled with Jacob, not the other way around. Jacob, of course, used the same natural defenses that he had used in the past to contend against God. Jacob meets God in his own natural strength. Jacob’s stubbornness is overcome by the Lord touching his hip joint. In this way God completely crippled Jacob of his own natural strength and Jacob could not wrestle anymore.
In his utter weakness and helplessness Jacob could do nothing else but cling to the Lord and ask for a blessing. The Book of Hosea tells us that he begged, weeping . . . “he wept, and made supplication unto Him” (Hosea 12:4).
Jacob allowed God to break him and change him. He stopped pretending he was in control and let God work in his life. In essence, Jacob was humbled before almighty, sovereign God.
I spent over three solitary hours swimming in the ocean while, figuratively, my Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ walked on the water beside me. He encouraged me and counseled me. He rebuked me and chastened me. He humbled me and taught me. But best of all, He loved me.
We may not have physically wrestled like Jacob, but we sure did emotionally and spiritually. We spoke; I was honest and so was He. No one but God Himself is able to reach that deep into a soul and bless it. No one but the Lord Jesus Christ. What a Saviour Jesus is. I am humbled by His glorious person, His amazing grace and His mercy.
An amazing part of Jacob’s story that can easily be overlooked is a small, seemingly insignificant detail. In Genesis 28, when Jacob had to leave his home because of his dishonesty and deception, the Scripture tells us that at the end of the first day, he tarried there all night because “the sun was set.” A time of darkness descended on Jacob’s life.
However, after years of struggle and hardship, as Jacob makes his way back to his rightful place, after the Lord wrestles with him in Genesis 32 and he is blessed by God, the Scripture tells us that “the sun rose upon him.” The darkness is lifted. Think about it.
In the words of C. H. Mackintosh, “God will have broken material, whether it will be a patriarch or an apostle. All must be mellowed and subdued in order that the divine glory may shine forth with an ever brightening luster.”
“Before I was afflicted I went astray: but now have I kept Thy word. . . . It is good for me that I have been afflicted; that I might learn Thy statutes. . . . I know, O Lord, that Thy judgments are right, and that Thou in faithfulness hast afflicted me. . . . In my distress I cried unto the Lord, and He heard me” (Psalm 119:67,71,75; 120:1).
Jonah 2:29
“I cried by reason of mine affliction unto the Lord, and He heard me; out of the belly of [the grave] cried I, and Thou heardest my voice.
“For Thou hadst cast me into the deep, in the midst of the seas; and the floods compassed me about: all Thy billows and Thy waves passed over me.
“Then I said, I am cast out of Thy sight; yet I will look again toward Thy holy temple.
“The waters compassed me about, even to the soul: the depth closed me round about, the weeds were wrapped about my head.
“I went down to the bottoms of the mountains; the earth with her bars was about me forever: yet hast Thou brought up my life from corruption, O Lord my God.
“When my soul fainted within me I remembered the Lord: and my prayer came in unto Thee, into Thine holy temple.
“They that observe lying vanities forsake their own mercy.
“But I will sacrifice unto Thee with the voice of thanksgiving; I will pay that that I have vowed. Salvation is of the Lord.”