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.