Page 44 of Between Then and Now
I plunge into the cold water, the shock of it stealing my breath. The waves crash against me, trying to knock me off my feet. I push forward, reaching out to grab the boy. He’s crying, his small hands flailing, but I manage to get a grip on his arm. I pull him towards me, using every ounce of strength I have to fight against the current.
“Hang on, I’ve got you,” I say, my voice trembling with effort. The boy clings to me, his tiny body shaking with fear. With a final surge of strength, I drag us both back toward the shore. His father reaches us, his face a mask of relief and gratitude. He takes his son from my arms, holding him close and thanking me profusely. I manage a weak smile, feeling the weight of my waterlogged clothes dragging me down. And just as I’m about to step back to the shore, the waves grow larger.
It’s only when the angry waves devour me from the shore and pull me further into the ocean that I panic. Not because the saltwater stings my eyes. Not because I see John’s panicked expression. Not because I see Ryan running from a distance. Not even because I’m holding my camera, now surely broken, putting my entire film at risk. I panic because I’m suddenly reminded that I can’t swim.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ryan
The kid is safe and is rushed to the tent for first aid, but Bon is still there. I see her get swallowed by the waves, so without a second thought, I dive into the water, my only focus on reaching her. It never even occurs to me that the ocean scares me—that it attempted to swallow me whole when I was a child. I don’t even hesitate, even when the waves are crashing wildly by the shore, each one a formidable wall of water. I can barely dodge them, the force of the water almost knocking me off balance.
I scan the churning sea desperately, my eyes straining to catch a glimpse of Bon. Then, I see her—a small figure struggling against the relentless waves, her movements frantic and panicked. She's being pulled under. My chest tightens with a mix of fear and determination.
“Bon!” I shout, but my voice is drowned out by the roar of the waves. I push forward, every muscle in my body straining as I fight against the powerful current. The saltwater stings my eyes, but I don’t dare blink. I can’t lose sight of her.
Finally, I reach her, my hand grasping her arm just as she’s pulled under again. I tighten my grip, pulling her towards me with all the strength I can muster. Her face is pale, and her eyes are closed, and that’s when the real panic sets in.
“I’ve got you!” I shout, hoping she can hear me. “Hold on, Bon!”
With a tremendous effort, I get us both to the shore. The waves recede just as we stumble onto the sand, but Bon remains unresponsive. My chest tightens with fear. I quickly check her breathing—there’s a weak pulse, so I’m relieved in a way. I stillhave to help her regain consciousness before her pulse weakens even more.
I’m a doctor. I’ve done this countless times in practice, but nothing prepares you for the real thing, especially when it’s someone you care about. It’s like my training has evaporated in the face of raw, frantic fear. The rules I’ve followed for so long seem to blur. But somehow, it’s both the hardest and the easiest thing to do because while I act on expertise, I also act on instinct. I act on emotions, desperate to save her.
I force myself to breathe, snapping back into focus. I need to act. I tilt her head back, making sure her airway is clear. I pinch her nose shut and take a deep breath, leaning in to give her rescue breaths. I seal my lips against hers, my heart pounding in my ears as I blow air into her lungs. The sensation is strange—cold and salty, with an odd tenderness that makes my chest tighten. I watch her chest rise with each breath I give. The sand under my knees is rough and uncomfortable, but I can’t bring myself to think about that.
From my peripheral vision, I can see other doctors at a safe distance from us, ready with emergency responses like fluids, oxygen masks, and bag-valve masks, which I now realize would have been a better option than giving her mouth-to-mouth, but I was overruled by panic. I motion for them to stand by, but I have a good feeling they won’t be needed.
True enough, after several cycles, I can feel Bon’s pulse quicken and strengthen. A weak, shaky breath escapes her lips, and my heart leaps with relief. I gently roll her onto her side, allowing any remaining water to drain from her lungs. Her eyes flutter open, and I can see the confusion and fear in them. Without thinking, I hug her as she sits up. She continues to cough so I let go of her immediately. I rest a hand on hershoulder, trying to offer comfort as she struggles to regain her senses.
“Bon,” I say, my voice hoarse and trembling with emotion. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”
She looks up at me, her expression unreadable. I can see the vulnerability in her eyes, the silent gratitude. Bon still isn’t talking, but I wrap her in a towel John handed me when we resurfaced. I help her up and wrap my arm around her for support.
“Are you okay? Can you walk?” I ask calmly, still holding her in my arms.
She looks at me and shakes her head. Her face is void of its usual color, and her lips are pale.
My heart aches as I see her struggle. “Bon, we need to move away from the shore.” The waves are still crashing relentlessly and it’s making me so incredibly uncomfortable. “I’ll carry you if you’re too dizzy to walk. It’s fine, really. We just need to go to the medical tent, is that okay?” I ask her reassuringly.
She just looks at me and nods silently. Before I can lift her, John approaches us.
“Let me help.” He offers to take Bon’s hand.
Instinctively, I raise a hand to stop him. “No,” I say, more forcefully than I intended. “I’ve got her.”
John insists again to let him take care of Bon, but I just can’t do that. I can’t entrust her to someone else. I don’t care anymore that Alexa is staring from a distance, I don’t let go of Bon, and she doesn’t pull away from me. We suddenly have an unspoken agreement not to let go of each other.
“Let’s get you out of here,” I murmur, scooping her up in my arms. She doesn’t protest, just leans her head against my chest, her breathing shallow and unsteady.
“Thank you,” she mutters quietly as we walk away from the beach and toward the triage tent.
“You don’t need to thank me.” I stare forward, focusing on the direction we’re moving toward.
“You hate the ocean,” she says.
“Yeah, but I don’t hate you,” I say with a light chuckle.
“And I promised I won’t need you too much.” Her voice is hoarse and quiet, nothing like her usual voice.
