Sink or Swim

Growing up, we lived in a beachfront, twice-mortgaged, falling apart, five-bedroom house next door to the St. Croix Yacht Club.

The house was about two miles from the uninhabited eastern point of the island.  The barren, wind-swept East Point (now known as Point Udall) is not just the easternmost point of the island, but is the easternmost point in the whole United States. 

So when we were young, we used to all go out to East Point early on New Years morning to watch the sun come up.  

We would be the first family to see the sun each year (or decade) – a tradition I still cherish.

Our house on Teague Bay actually sat up the hill from the ocean, but the property extended down to the waterfront.  Thus our house had an incomparable view of the large bay.  The bay stretched a mile wide, from Romney Point just to the east of the yacht club to Teague Point away to the west of us.

All along the northeastern side of the island, a long coral reef stretched for miles.  

At places where the peninsulas like Romney Point jutted out, it may have only been a fifty yards or so off shore. 

But Teague Bay, where we lived, was one of the biggest bays on the eastern end of the island.  So from our house to the reef was a little over a half mile.

We used to love to sail or motor boat out to the reef and spend an hour or so in the water.  

We’d swim northward, against the strong current, first. 

That way when we’d been swimming for an hour or so and were tired out, we could just drift with the current back to the boat.

Along the way we swam through a wonderland of brain coral, stag horn coral and fire coral.  

Purple, green and tan sea fans waved in and out with each wave swell.  




Sea anemone tentacles and feather dusters wiggled and beckoned with the coming and going of the current.  

A rainbow of fish and other sea creatures dodged and darted in and out.

There were black and yellow striped sergeant majors, glistening orangish-gold squirrelfish, and the funny-looking porcupine fish that would puff up, causing the spines covering their bodies to stick straight out like a porcupine.


Then of course there were the brightly colored parrot fish (which I liked because they were beautiful despite their overbites like mine!)


Green moray eels peeked out of their rocky strongholds, nostrils flared and teeth bared.  And if you looked closely, you could see flat, camouflaged, saucer-like flounders lying on the sandy ocean floor. 

 But they often blended into the sand so well they were hard to detect. 


Often there would even be a shark cruising by to see what we were up to.  

If they got too curious, we would slowly swim in closer, between the coral branches, because we knew sharks wouldn't go too deeply into the coral.

But when I was about eleven, Fairleigh Dickinson University built an ocean= ography extension campus just to the east of us.  

It snuggled into the tiny valley of Teague Bay, just inland from the yacht club.  


And as part of their oceanography observation post, they anchored a huge, floating platform half a mile straight out from our house, alongside the reef.

This really delighted us immensely.  




It meant whenever we went out to snorkel at the reef, we could tie up to the platform (instead of worrying about the hassle of using an anchor.) 


And we could climb up on it to rest in between forays along the reef.  
This provided more snorkeling time per trip.

Well, we’d been snorkeling for a while one day when my brother, Tom, looked at his watch and realized that we had to head back immediately.  

He had to be at work at his job in the dish room at "The Lab" (which is what the university extension had come to be known.) 


So he and another sibling hurriely jumped into the first boat and headed back. That left my step-brother, Cameron,  and me to sail back in the second Sunfish.  We swam for just a bit longer before heading back.





Cam got in the boat and I climbed up on the float to untie us.  I unwound the rope from the cleat and threw it to Cam.

  
Then I jumped down into the water to climb into the boat with him.  

But he snickered, then laughed out loud as he cinched in the sheet line, pulling the sail in tight and catching the wind.  

In a flash, he sailed off without me, leaving me treading water, alone, a half mile off shore.

 
“Very funny, Cam!” I shouted after him, angrily treading water.  But he just laughed louder, looking back at me as he gained speed.

I figured he just wanted to scare me and would soon circle back for me.  But as seconds turned into minutes, I realized I’d been wrong.  

He’d left me behind, bobbing in the waves!  Not knowing what to do, I climbed back up onto the float, joining a few brown pelicans who’d perched on the other side, basking in the sun.

I sat there for a while, swinging my legs back and forth as they dangled over the edge, trying to make a plan. I sat there for several minutes, calculating my chances and pondering. 

(You can see our house - the big, white roof at the point where the bay reaches in the farthest.  The floating platform was just out of sight on the left side of the photo near the horizon, at about the edge of the page.  That's a long stretch for a young girl who's already been swimming the reefs for an hour or two in strong currents!)


I looked to the pelicans sitting on the other side of the platform.  They ignored me.   

I weighed my options, which were few, as I watched the shark swimming lazily below in the crystal clear water. 

Finally, I realized my only option was to dive in and strike out for home, swimming the half mile expanse.  

At first, the thought terrified me.  But what other choice did I have?  And I was a pretty good swimmer (for a scrawny twelve-year-old.) I realized I just had to suck it up and do it. 

  
I could change strokes when I tired, I decided - a little freestyle, then some breast stroke, followed by a little backstroke.  

If I tired out completely, I could roll over and float on my back until I had enough energy to continue, I reasoned.


I was, however, really concerned about the strong current from the east and how it would affect my path.   


Even if I swam strongly, I’d never make it in a straight path for home.  The current was way too strong, especially where it came around Romney Point.

And the rocky shore downwind of our house troubled me.  I certainly didn’t want to wash up there.

If I only swam half-heartedly, or had to rest too often, I could safely make the sandy beach of The Reef Condominiums, down at the west end of the bay - just before the perilous, rocky coast.  

But if I couldn’t make that, I’d be in huge trouble.  


The whole stretch from The Reef Condominium out to Teague Point consisted of a wall of sharp, rocky cliffs upon which the strong current crashed unrelentingly.


But I could do it, I told myself.  I could do it.  

If I set out northeast toward the upwind arm of the bay at Romney point, I’d get behind the hill sooner, diminishing the current tremendously.  But swimming upwind would really take it out of my quickly.  Especially after already of snorkeling the reef for so long.... 

Darn Cameron!


I couldn’t swim upwind far enough to reach the up-current Romney Point.  But if I tried, I at least would be ahead of the game toward a landing either at home or down at "The Reef's" sandy beach.

So, saying goodbye to the two brown pelicans, who appeared indifferent to my plight, I first scanned the water.  

The shark had moved on.  I took a deep breath and dove it. I just had to take the bull by the horns – or the shark by the fin, as it were.


The current turned out to be as strong as I’d thought.  

There was no way could I make it anywhere near Romney Point.  

I rolled over on my back after about five minutes.  

I would allow myself exactly 60 seconds of floating time before I struck out again.





Breathing deeply and trying to relax in the warm, small swells, I counted:       
one Mississippi…  two Mississippi…            three Mississippi….  drifting closer toward the rocky point.  
By fifty-eight Mississippi, I began to bargain with myself, begging for one more minute.  

But I took one look at the rocky coast of Teague Point and gave in.  Over I flipped, and struck out again.

After what felt like four or five minutes, gasping for breath, I flipped onto my back again and tried to relax and breathe slowly and deeply....  One Mississippi... 
two Mississippi... 
three Mississippi ..... 

Then I heard a low, muffled rumbling, far off, but getting slowly louder.  

A motor boat!  I’d only swum half way and here came my savior   my knight in shining armor.  

Okay, my sailor in salty hull.  But you get the picture.

I allowed myself another ten seconds of floating and then began to tread water, waving my weary arms overhead to flag down the oncoming boat.  


As it came nearer and nearer, my heart swelled with relief.  Suddenly those dark, violent rocks along the point lost some of their power.

I waved and waved, treading water faster and faster until I was out of the water almost up to my waist. 

 I didn’t mind spending the extra energy.  It was worth it to flag down help.  And I wouldn’t need it once I’d been rescued anyway. 

But the boat wasn’t slowing, nor veering.  And I lay right in its path as it sped toward the yacht club.  I waved again, then began to panic. 


With my heart racing, I realized that it was coming right at me and they couldn't see me! 


After a few moments of fear, I realized that sitting there panicking wouldn’t save me from those racing propeller blades.


Again, I measured and calculated.  I had to time it just right, but it would work.

If I waited until it was almost upon me, took a huge breath and swam quickly down toward the ocean’s floor, I could escape the deadly propellers.


Five…four…three…two…ONE!  

I took a huge breath and dove down, swimming deeper and deeper.  I didn’t feel the sting of the salt water as I kept my eyes open and trained them on that approaching boat’s hull.

At the stern, the propeller whirred so fast as to be unseen.  But there was no mistaking that thundering white flume of bubbles shooting out behind the boat.  Half way to the ocean floor, I flipped over, my eyes still on the boat’s hull as it passed over me.


Using my hands as scoops, I pushed water quickly upward, pushing myself further and further down toward the sea-grassed floor.  

My eyes widened as the boat roared by overheard.  I could see the streamlining ridges under the boat’s hull.  

And now I got a frighteningly clear view of the deadly propeller. 






But my lungs felt like they would burst as I reached the ocean’s floor about fifteen feet beneath the surface. 

Waiting until the last moment, I somersaulted. 

Planting my feet in the seagrass, I quickly shoved off the floor, frantically propelled myself toward the surface. 

I flew to the surface, gasping and sputtering, gulping in fresh air as I surfaced in the boat's wake.  

But once I’d taken two or three deep breaths, I had to smile.  How incredible was I?  I’d plotted my course inland; and I’d outmaneuvered a deadly speed boat!

Rejuvenated, I struck out again, once I’d caught my breath.  

Striking out up-current at the start had really paid off.  

Though I didn’t make it to Romney point, I had managed to get into the calmer eddy behind the point sooner.  

And that had slowed the current enough that I managed to make shore just at the very leeward end of our sandy beach with only a couple more rest breaks.

I staggered out of the water right at the edge of the first jagged rocks.  My rubbery legs so weak I could barely walk, I made it to the soft, dry sand before I collapsed.  

I reached the beached Sunfish where Cam had left it without bothering to furl the sail and put it away properly.  


There, I flopped breathlessly down into the warm, soft sand and lay looking up.

The palm branches danced and swayed in the wind above me.  The same winds that pushed that ocean current so forcefully into a dangerous current also made the palms flutter and sway so peacefully, so hypnotically overhead.

Watching the palms dip and dance above, I fell quickly asleep almost instantly, cradled by the soft sands of home.

And so it often is in life. We may be at the most beautiful moments  in life, like the magic that day at the reef, and we think it can't get any more perfect.  

Then we are suddenly thrown into frightening, traumatic situations.  And at that point, (as any time in life) everything is a choice.

We have two choices: sink or swim.  

We can give in and just be dashed upon the rocks; or we can swim with all our might. 


So when the fire-breathing dragons (or speedboats) come at us, we have two choices.  We can freeze in our tracks and be consumed, or we can dive deeply into the Water and be saved.  


Everything in life is a choice.  When given the choice to sink or swim... I always choose to swim.

Liz Carson Rosas
5 January 2010






For I am the LORD, your God,
       who takes hold of your right hand
       and says to you, Do not fear;
       I will help you.                        -- Isaiah 49:13




You are my hiding place;
       you will protect me from trouble
       and surround me with songs of 
       deliverance.                             -- Psalms 32:7




I am with you and will watch over you 
wherever you go,and I will bring you back 
to this land. I will not leave you until I have 
done what I have promised you.   
                                                      -- Genesis 28:15




The Lord will keep you from all harm—
       he will watch over your life;
  the Lord will watch over your coming and going
       both now and forevermore. 
                                                      -- Psalm 121:7,8