"Make sure there's always other people around when you go swimming". "Never swim alone". "Don't go in water over your head". "Stay close to the lifeguards". "Don't swim at sunset". These are just some of the warnings I've heard over the years from people who showed their concern at my habits of doing all of the above despite promising I wouldn't. White lies, I tell myself. Just little white lies to keep them quiet and from worrying unnecessarily. After all, I'm a good swimmer and I'm always aware of my surroundings.
Yes, I try to make sure there are other people around when I swim but that's not always possible. Sometimes I end up heading to the beach alone because no one else feels like going and I'm not one to pass up opportunities just because I have no one to go with. And later in the season, there are few people at the beach because everyone is back to school or work and the air is cooler. I rarely go in water over my head but if the water is clear and calm, sometimes I'm enticed to go further out to explore the depths with my mask and snorkel. And swimming at sunset? Well, that's my favourite time to swim!
I've always heard the stories about Inverness Beach and some of the other nearby beaches along the northwestern coast of Cape Breton. Stories about the riptides and strong currents and about how many people have drowned in the area over the years. It wasn't that I didn't believe the stories; I just never witnessed conditions bad enough to warrant much concern any time I swam there. That is until July 27th, 2024. That day turned out to be one I'll never forget and one that changed the way I feel about the ocean forever.
For most of the afternoon, we alternated our time between swimming and sunbathing on the beach. I swam in water just over my head with no issues. Everything was good, it was a perfect day.
At around 4 O'clock, we went for a long walk down the beach to dry off and headed to Cheticamp for something to eat with the intention of returning to the beach in time for one last sunset swim before heading home.
We walked onto the beach near the canteen and instead of walking further down the beach like I usually did, I decided to just swim right there. Just before sunset, I entered the water for my final swim of the day. The water was still calm and clear and the sun was starting it's descent into the horizon. About a dozen people were still in the water and all was well. No one else was in the water right where I was but there were people all around, both on the beach and in the water nearby.
My friend stayed on the beach this time to take pictures and catch up on some messages she got throughout the day. I slipped into the warm water and when I got waist-deep, I swam for a bit in the fading beam of sunlight that stretched from the horizon to the beach. After a few minutes, I switched to floating on my back. I remember it being so calm and relaxing in those last few moments before the chaos.
I was only floating like that for maybe two minutes and in a matter of seconds, my relaxing sunset swim turned into a fight for my life. When I tried to stand up, I was in water over my head the shore was getting further and further away. I tried to swim but to no avail. I was being pulled into deeper water. Then it hit me; I was in a riptide. My first reaction was panic. I frantically tried to swim harder and harder and instead of getting closer to shore, I was pulled underwater. I remember advice giving to me in the past; if you find yourself in a rip current, DON'T PANIC! I regained my composure but knew I needed help. I waved my hands in the air and yelled "HELP". I could see everyone on the beach but no one was looking my way. No one on the beach saw my waving and no one heard my desperate call for help. I was on my own and had to act fast.
As if by some miracle, my foot found a large rock. I wrapped my ankles around as best as I could and held on for dear life while I tried to regain my strength for one last attempt to get myself out of that raging current. When I felt ready, I used all my strength to propel myself toward the beach using the rock. I swam as hard as I could, using both arms and legs and all the energy I had left. Finally, I was back in water shallow enough to stand up and walk the last few feet to shore. The whole ordeal felt like an eternity but was just minutes, if that. That's how quickly I could have been swept out into the open ocean and never seen again. When I reached the water's edge, I collapsed in the sand, choking and crying. My friend raced to me to see what was wrong. She hadn't seen a thing but she saw the terror in my eyes and knew that I had just been through a harrowing experience.
For days after that incident, I couldn't get my mind of it. All I could think about was how close I was to drowning and how lucky I was to be still alive. I noticed myself feeling grateful towards everything. Even small things - like a relaxing walk, my morning coffee with Dad, a hot meal - were given more thought than usual. And let me tell you, was I ever grateful to see that beautiful sunrise that morning. And as I sat silently and watched the sun rise over the bay and the sky turn all sorts of vibrants colors I couldn't shake the thought that I almost never got to see the sunrise again.
I went for a swim at the beach close to my house a few days after the incident in Inverness and found myself looking at the ocean differently. I didn't hate it or blame it for nearly claiming me; I just had a newfound respect for the power it held and how quickly it could turn a leisurely swim into a fight for survival in a matter of seconds. I entered the water slower than usual and as I stood and looked out to the far depths of the Atlantic, that wave of gratitude came over me once again when I thought about how I could have ended up somewhere out there, never to step foot on dry land again.
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