St. Vincent, or How I Saved Jamie's Life

True Story
Not That The Other Ones Aren't
St. Vincent, Spring, 1980

 

I actually saved Jamie’s life once, for real, the week she asked me to marry her. Jump cut to Back Story.

 

1980

I was attending a conference on wildlife trafficking on St. Lucia and Jamie flew from New York to meet me there. I’d been bugging her to marry me for months, so she had concocted a counter plan to meet me in the tropics and ask me herself. After the conference we were to fly to St. Vincent to visit some folks I knew there. I was outside watching frigate birds with the wing spans of sailing ships coast from one ocean to another, east to west, west to east, Pacific to Atlantic, Atlantic to Pacific, one ocean to another, when she appeared at the patio door…looking deathly ill! She’d contracted something back in the States and flown, anyway. Now, her throat had swollen shut, and she had difficulty breathing. We flew to St. Vincent and a diagnosis of ‘quinsies’, basically, swollen tonsils (a "peritonsillar abcess" - a pus filled pocket - alleged to have killed George Washington in less than twenty-four hours). St. Vincent’s medical capabilities were just about a single pay grade above your old camp counselor's medicine chest. It was determined that, if the swelling did not go down by morning, they’d sterilize a pvc pipe and stick it down her throat. That’s all “J” had to hear. The next morning the swelling had gone down considerably, and a couple of days later it was gone completely. Cured, right? As far as “J” was concerned, it was party time. Take it easy? Nah. We’re young, strong, and insisted we celebrate by going to a black sand beach that was basically deserted. For good reason, although we didn't know that yet. By this time, she’d asked me to marry her, and I’d said sure, why not? 

So, we get to this black sand beach in a stunning cove with no one but us anywhere around, and Jamie, fresh from a very sick bed, plunges into the water and heads for the horizon wearing, by the way, a very small, white bikini. So, of course, I plunge in after her in my black Speedo until we are both a good hundred yards from shore. We’re bobbing like apples in gentle waves and warm water, bouncing up and down, laughing, waving at each other, blowing kisses. I growled I was Black Beard coming to confiscate her goodies. She faked Pearl Pureheart. What could be wrong?

Then, “J” signals she’s going back to shore, and sets out. Except she can’t. She doesn’t have the strength to buck the suddenly pitiless cross currents. And I see that she can’t. I see that she’s in trouble. Adrenalin pumps through my body like an oil strike. My heart swings into high gear. She can’t get in! I crawled as hard as I could, leapt the last yard, and managed to make it to her. I remember that moment. No alternative. She was losing strength. I had to get to her. She could not get in. Get to her! I looked and saw this enormous wave building towards us. As it crested, I took “J” by the butt and tossed her up in the air to the peak of the wave. It carried her forward then slingshot her to shore. 

My turn.

I suddenly found I could not battle the current, either. I felt a nano-second’s worth of panic then decided that wouldn’t do. How the hell do I get out of this mess? I did my best and got nowhere. Jesus Christ, am I gonna drown out here? That was the instant I suddenly felt calm. In that instant I’d decided that if I didn’t break free after one more stroke I’d relax, turn on my back, float, and let the sea carry me to the next cove. Stay on my back, swim when I can, stay calm, enjoy the ride, and hope nothing eats me. I may well have been deluded, but that was the instant I broke free and made it to shore. 

You have to know when to stop fighting. Sometimes you just have to lay back and let the waves take you. Trust them because you know the ways of currents. They take you away; they bring you back. But, you have to let them do it. Hope is not action. It is desire. The desire but not the muscle. Faith? The surety you are in good hands? The best hands I am in are my own. As the Quakers say, way opens, and it did open, and the possibility brought me calm.

Jamie and I celebrate 42 years this week.