Randy White - Twelve Mile Limit

Not always.

To JoAnn, I said, “Looks like I’ve got some time on my hands,” as I unclipped my belt and stepped out of my sandals.

In the mangrove heat of an autumn afternoon, Amelia and I ran along the marina’s shell road that tunnels through prop-roots, tidal swamp, out into the light and traffic of Tarpon Bay Road, then straight to the beach. We were on the late November cusp of tourist season, so there were a lot of rental cars, metallic bubbles in crimson, bronze, white; a noticeable increase in the number of license plates from Ohio, Michigan, New York, Canada.

The first ten minutes or so, we talked about how crappy we felt, how shaky.

“I’m not going to drink any alcohol for a month,” she said. Her tone told me that she was angry at herself, disappointed, too, and communicated to me on a deeper level so that I could be certain it was uncharacteristic behavior.

In a similar tone, I said, “Couldn’t agree more. What an idiotic waste of time. It ruined my whole damn morning. I slept for a couple hours, woke up at seven, went straight to the lab, but didn’t get any work done at all.”

Later, watching the sunset from the patio outside the Mucky Duck, me holding a draft beer, her with a glass of wine, we’d both laugh at our own weakness and hypocrisy. Now, though, we were determined to get ourselves clean again, to take control, and physical penance seemed like an appropriate start.

If you run or swim much, you can tell very quickly if an unfamiliar workout partner takes either discipline seriously. Amelia clearly did-she ran with a long, pure stride; she seemed to glide as I pounded along, big and muscle-dense, at her side. When I asked her, “Okay with you if we pick up the pace a little?” she answered, “Seriously? I’d love to,” with an edge that made me think, Uh-oh.

So we punished ourselves. Got the sweat going, hearts pounding, the lungs burning. Got the tiny little voice of reason that lives on the outskirts of the modern brain whispering couch-potato lies: Slow down. Why push yourself? Listen to the pain. Listen to your body, not your instincts! Stop fighting against the inevitable!

We ran southeast on the sand ridge that is higher and harder than the actual beach. To our right, the Gulf of Mexico was mineral green, dense with salt, swollen with autumnal light. There were beach umbrellas, bikini swatches triangulated on strawberry breasts, oiled thighs, boom-box Margaritaville music, and bearish men sleeping facedown, their white skin seared the color of ham. Off to the left were sea oats and condos and expensive hotels with pools and package deals, outdoor cabana bars with familiar names: Casa Ybel, Sandal Foot, Snook Inn, Westwind.

After slightly more than twenty minutes of pushing myself way too hard-we had to have gone at least three miles-I took a couple of big gulps of air in order to speak, and said, “What I’m worried about is, if you don’t know CPR, I could collapse right here and die.”

She guffawed, broke stride, held out her palm to me, still jogging, and we shook hands. “That was a hell of a five-k. We had to be running sub-sevens. And in this damn sand!”

“I know, I know. Mind if we walk until my legs stop shaking?”

We turned back toward Tarpon Bay Road, and I listened as she made small talk about her work. She’d graduated from South Florida, got her law degree from Stetson, then went to work for the state, representing migrant workers in Immokalee and Belle Glade.

“My dad, God rest his good, good soul, always told me that I was born to be a rescuer. I so wish he’d been right.”

I said, “You’re being pretty hard on yourself, lady.”

“I know, I know. I keep hoping it will go away. That feeling keeps coming back, survivor’s guilt.”

I decided it was as good a time as any to bring up the subject again, so I asked her, “Any chance the guilt is so strong that you might have imagined seeing the boat? The one you think could have picked up the other three, the boat without lights?”

“No… no, I don’t think so. At least… well, I probably did go a little crazy sitting on that tower for two nights, but not that crazy. The mind can do funny things, but I know in my heart that I saw something. It was there. I could hear it. I could smell it even before I saw it. Even with all the dried bird guano on the tower, the air out there is so clean, the smell really stuck with me. Diesel fumes and cigarette smoke and something else… a kind of…” Her nose wrinkled, remembering it. “Stench. A stink. That’s the only word that describes it. Not just old fish. The boat had this really foul odor. I’ve never smelled anything like it before. Worse than garbage. Which means I couldn’t have imagined it.”

I told her, “So I accept your earlier offer. I will listen to everything you say and keep it in confidence-Tomlinson is the only exception. Sometimes I need to bounce things off that big brain of his. If that’s okay with you, tell me all about it. In return, I’ll promise to help you in any way I can.”

She pursed her lips, giving it consideration, then held out her hand again to shake on it.

We did.

Probably because I’ve spent so much time in port towns and small coastal villages around the world, I’ve heard many stories about survival at sea. There are the epic tales, such as those of Shackelton and Bligh, as well as the more modern accounts of Steve Callahan’s 72 days adrift or the Baileys, who survived for 117 days in a rubber raft, eating raw turtle and trigger fish, and of the Robertson family, who endured 37 days in a raft after their sailboat was damaged by a whale.

I’m also familiar with a dozen or more accounts of SCUBA divers who surfaced only to discover that their boat had sunk or, more commonly, the charter boat they’d been on had gone off and left them, almost always because of some bored dive master’s sloppy head count.

It happens a lot. Way more often than most sport divers realize and more than most busy charter companies care to admit. Worldwide, there are dozens of similar incidents reported each year, which is why smart divers always make it a point of introducing themselves to several strangers when outward bound on an unfamiliar dive boat. Even if you’re the shy, quiet type, make very damn sure that other people aboard know who you are, where you’re from, and that they find you and your partner unforgettable.

The modern world and its complicated series of safety nets have orphaned us from the exigencies of fundamental survival. To be adrift in a lifeboat or to be adrift in the water, floating and alone, legs dangling down into the abyss, are two very different propositions, though neither is enviable. It is the stories of the lost divers, though, that I find the most chilling. There are some heroic stories and some horrific stories, although few lost divers live to tell the tale.

Here, jogging along at my side, was a woman who had found a way to survive. I gave her my full attention, asking only the occasional leading question to prod her along when necessary. I also made little mental notes that I would later detail on paper when I returned to the lab.

When you meet one of the rare strong and good ones, a small request for help is not an imposition, it is an opportunity. Sometimes it is also an honor.

Amelia told me that at around 11 P.M., after four hours of swimming fixedly toward the light, the steel girders of the 160-foot navigational tower took shape in the blackness. When she was near enough, she let the waves wash her into the metal service ladder, then fought with the last of her strength to hang on. She held herself there until she had the waves timed, then used one of the swells to boost herself up onto the rungs, and climbed to the tower’s lowest deck. It was only about 8 feet above the water.