It was Easter Sunday. A dark, gloomy day. My brother Matt and I were wading in the water, knee-deep, when all of a sudden, my brother Matt got pulled into a riptide, immediately I went after him, in an effort to bring him back. But I got swept up into it, too. It wasn’t long before I was in over my head, and the waves, some five, some more, feet long, began crashing over my head, as I found myself being pulled in an unstoppable current of natural force, sweeping me, and Matt, out to sea.
My brother Dave, on the beach, noticed what was going on, and yelled to get my dad’s attention, who was listening to music on his headphones.

Waving his hands in the air at him, my brother Dave was finally able to get my dad’s attention, and, when my dad saw what was happening, he knew it might be a 50/50 chance he would survive. But he jumped into the water, after us, and before you knew it, himself got caught in the riptide.

I remember, as I was being swept out, a rock with bright red crabs, six inches to one foot in diameter, on it, staring me in the face. I began screaming. I was seven years old.

Eventually, my dad caught up to both of us, and was able to hold onto Matt with his one arm, and me with his other, but by this time, we were all in over our heads, and our strength was ebbing away. Together, but with waves crashing all around, and powerless, my dad prayed, something to the effect of,

“God, please help us. We need your help.”

The three of us, huddled together, were stranded in the middle of the ocean, dozens of meters, or yards, away from the shore, with no Lifeline of support to bring us back into shore or someplace safe, and dry.

A few minutes later, a giant wave came, lifted the three of us up into its swell, crested, and carried us back into shore.

My mom, relieved, was there to greet us, and Dave.

We shook off the water from our swim trunks, and I, trembling, along with my brother Matt and father, sat down on the mat, to recuperate.

I could not save my brother Matt, my brother Matt could not save himself, my dad could not save either of us. Only God was able to save us, that day. And did.

One thought on “On the Shores of San Pedro

  1. The San Pedro I am referring to, here, for those who may not know, or be familiar with it, is a port town in Ivory Coast (Côte d’Ivoire), West Africa. It is a Portuguese name. (Think “Henry the Navigator” or other like explorers from centuries ago.)

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