The year was 1980. It seems so long ago now. For reference, it was the year that Mount St. Helens first erupted. It was the year John Lennon was assassinated. It was that entire year that 52 American hostages were held by Iran. There is one day of that year I will never forget. I would like to share this true story with you.
It was a typical sunny day on the island of Iwo Jima, Japan. I was 10 months into a one-year tour of duty on the U.S. Coast Guard LORAN (Long Range Aid to Navigation) station.
It didn’t take long for the sun to begin to bake on the flat roof of the barracks building that day. It was Saturday and I did not have duty. I was free to go to the beach or wander about the station, chatting with any of the other 25 crewmen who were unlucky enough to be stationed there. I ran into my friend Jim in the hallway. He was wearing shorts and flip-flops and he stank of sun-tan lotion. He was headed to the beach.
“Where are you going, Jimmy?” I asked.
Jimmy looked over his shoulder at me and smiled. “Shipwreck,” he replied. “Ya wanna come along?”
Jimmy was a tall, stocky guy who I always thought looked like John F. Kennedy with blonde hair. Shipwreck Beach was usually the best swimming beach on the island, being on the leeward side. It was named for a line of ships the Japanese sank during the war to keep the Americans from landing there.
“Who else is going?” I asked. (There were a few people on the island I had grown to dislike).
“Rick and Scotty,” Jim said, “and we got a ride.” It was a couple miles to Shipwreck, so a ride was a good thing, especially on a hot day.
“Can you wait for me to get ready?” I asked.
“Sure thing,” Jim replied.
I dove into my swim trunks, and we were soon on our way to Shipwreck Beach. The road that ran between the station and the beach was paved, but full of potholes. John Rodriguez was driving. John had a reputation for destroying vehicles, as he kept the gas pedal to the floor and did not even try to miss any ruts, holes or wild animals that ventured out of the jungle.
We pulled down to the beach and John dropped us off.
“Be back in two hours,” John said, “have fun.”
We headed for the beach, stopping briefly to throw a few rocks into the bubbling, volcanic, sulfur-smelling mud pit that was surrounded by high rocks on two sides and measured about twenty-five feet across.
Trudging through the grainy black volcanic sand, it took about 10 minutes to complete the journey to the water’s edge. There were still rusted pieces of steel track that had been laid down during the war, 35 years earlier, to keep tanks and other vehicles from bogging down in that very same sand.
The waves looked promising for body surfing. Jim and I peeled off our T-shirts and dove into the warm water. We rode a few waves when I noticed that we were quite a distance from shore. I rode another wave, and when I emerged, I found myself even farther out than before.
I realized immediately that we were caught in a riptide. I searched the water and spotted Jim another 10 yards out from me. I called to him and he looked over at me.
“We are in a riptide,” I yelled. “We are being towed out.”
Jim was amazed as he searched for Scott and Rick, who now looked like little bugs on the distant beach, trying to get our attention.
We both started swimming toward the beach and were making slow progress when a large wave crashed over the top of me. I felt as though I had been hit by a truck. I remember being twisted by the unbelievable power of the ocean. My left arm was painfully forced behind my body, leaving it useless.
I surfaced and gasped for air just as another large wave crashed over me, forcing me under once more. The sound beneath the waves seemed peaceful, but I much preferred being on the top where I could breathe. I swam to the surface and resumed my efforts to return to shore, but without my left arm, it was hopeless.
Jim looked back at me and saw that I was in trouble. He swam to me and grabbed hold, trying to pull me along. Another wave crashed over us and we were separated. I remember Jim looking at me with a helpless look on his face. He knew that if he tried to help me, we would both drown. I remember the fear I felt as Jim swam away.
I was growing tired and it was getting increasingly difficult to keep my head above water. I was no longer able to time my breathing with the waves and I was swallowing large amounts of seawater. I realized that there was no way I would be rescued. There were no boats anywhere nearby. No lifeguards. I was about to die.
I began to think of my parents and how devastated they would be. I thought about the girlfriend in the states I had promised to return to.
I felt myself sinking into the depths of the ocean and things began to turn black. The last thought I had was “God, please help me.” Then I passed out. The blackness soon turned to a warm, bright light. I felt like a baby in a womb: warm, safe and free of worries.
I don’t know how much time passed. I really don’t know what happened next or how it happened. I just remember that I regained consciousness — still in the ocean, but I felt sand beneath my feet. I was in shallow water, a few short feet from shore. I crawled onto the beach and began vomiting the water that I had swallowed. My friends saw me and came running down the beach to where I lay quivering in the sand — my arm hurting but, as it turned out, not broken. It was close to an hour before I had the energy to stand.
Many people had died on that island, but I would not be one of them. The very next day, a Japanese contractor drowned in the same spot. I felt guilty about that for a long time, but it wasn’t my decision. I do know that we are all given the gift of life and that gift should never be taken for granted.
EVERYBODY HAS A STORY welcomes nonfiction contributions of 1,000 words maximum and relevant photographs. E-mail is the best way to send materials so we don’t have to retype your words or borrow original photos. Send to neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA 98666. Call Scott Hewitt at 360-735-4525 with questions.
