“the day everything broke open“
It was my sister’s birthday celebration. Everyone had checked out. I stayed behind to soak in the quiet.
The morning was slow, soft. The sky was bright and clear. I wandered into the breakfast buffet, dining alfresco with the birds. With a satisfied belly and no plans, I decided to go for a dip. I mean, how often do I get to swim in my bikini and feel warm, salty water on my skin—now that I live in California, where just getting into the ocean includes a full-blown battle with a wetsuit?
The sun in Southeast Asia at noon is relentless, which meant the beach was deserted. Just me and the sea.
Mmm, this peaceful morning continues, I thought to myself.
As I stepped into the water, I heard a man behind me say, “Look at that jie-jie1, swimming alone. She’s so brave.” His little daughter, maybe five, stared at me with a blank face. I turned and gave her a proud wave. Maybe I inspired her. Maybe I inspired myself.
This was supposed to be a quick, feel-good swim. But I decided to set a little goal: swim to the rope line that marked the safe zone. As I swam deeper, my feet could no longer touch the ground. I immediately felt my heart beat faster and stronger—but I liked that, I felt alive.
I was barely recovered from COVID. I still had to stop mid-meal to catch my breath. Still had to pause every few steps just to catch it again. But that day, I felt good enough.
I told myself, This is fine. This feels good. Everything’s fine.
I kept swimming, steady and focused. Just between you and me, I’m not a strong swimmer. I don’t swim often. I didn’t have goggles. No float. No safety device.
But I made it to the rope—yay!
Good job, I told myself.
And then—I turned around.
The beach looked impossibly far.
Panic bloomed in my chest and spread to my whole body. I tried to swim faster, but the water held me in place. Tried to float. Tried backstroke. Still nothing. My breath was disappearing. My strength—gone.
I was all alone. No one in sight. No lifeguards. No boats. Just the beautiful view of this five-star resort in front of me. Calm, gentle waves between us—like nothing was wrong.
I thought, this is it. This is how my life ends.
Uh oh—I’ve let my parents down. Especially my mom.
Growing up, they never let us near the water. And I mean ever. We lived near the beach and had easy access to islands, but I was only allowed to go without them if I promised not to swim.
I always promised. I also always broke it.
The main reason is my mom… she lost her younger brother to drowning. He was part of the 27 Club. I remember his funeral. I was very young. Everyone was sad and crying, but what I remember most is being lifted up to see his face in the casket. He looked pale.
After all the warnings, all the fear, all the stories… here I am, giving my life to drowning?
What a legacy to carry.
Then I started wondering about my obituary.
Will it come out the next day? Will I be on the front page? I’ve been away from this city for almost a decade—would I be called a tourist or a local? Which picture would my parents choose?
Then I laughed. Drowning at a five-star beach resort. How ironic.
Maybe it’s time to scream for help now? But I barely had any energy or breath left.
Images flashed through my mind—me getting CPR on the sand from a lifeguard in red swimming trunks, surrounded by a crowd of people. My pale, blue face. Me coughing, choking, water spilling from my mouth, nose, lungs.
Would I be able to be saved, or would it be too late? They’d surely call me stupid for risking my life like this. Wait—would they think I planned this? That I was suicidal?
I choked on my breath.
And that’s when I saw them.
Two boys on the beach. One looked about twelve. His little brother, maybe seven, ran behind him.
This might be my only chance to be rescued.
I waved slowly. Carefully. Didn’t want to scare them off.
“Excuse me,” I called. “Can you come over, please?”
To my surprise, the older boy swam out to me. No hesitation. No fear.
When he reached me, I said gently, “Hi. I swam too far, too fast. Can you help bring me back to shore?”
He nodded silently and held out his left arm.
I rested both my hands on that tiny arm like it was sacred.
I didn’t want to hold too tight. I didn’t want to sink him too.
We swam back together. No words.
It didn’t feel very long, but eventually, he turned to me and said—completely monotone—
“I think your feet can reach the ground now.”
I must’ve looked like a cooked prawn—my legs curled up tightly.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
He turned back toward his brother and screamed,
“JAKE! LET’S GO SWIM!”
And just like that, they were gone.
I sat on the lounge chair for a long time, letting the sun dry my fear. My chest rising, falling, slowly finding rhythm again.
The sun was still warm. The waves still gentle. But I was not the same.
I didn’t die that day, but a version of me did.
And that was just the beginning.
- “Jie-jie” is Mandarin for “elder sister.” It’s often used as a respectful or affectionate way to refer to an older girl or woman. ↩︎
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