Decca Aitkenhead - All at Sea

He is tipping backwards in the water, his neck lolling in the swell, as if the waves were an armchair. He raises an arm, but the gesture looks half-hearted, almost casual, and a moment later he lets it drop. He is shouting something, but the voice is not his. It sounds slurred and thick, more animal than human. ‘Help,’ I hear. ‘Help.’ But there is no urgency in his cry.

What is he doing all the way out there? Without thinking I race back into the water. A voice from the beach halts me. ‘No!’ Waist-deep in surf, I turn. Blouser is shouting, and his pitch of raw fear seizes me for long enough to turn again and register three men out in the ocean, yards from Tony, swimming hard towards him. One is Shugoo; I can’t make out the other two. But whoever they are, they are going to reach Tony long before I can. I wade back to the beach.

It’s at this moment that time’s rhythm becomes unrecognisable, simultaneously frenetic and slow-motion. Seconds begin to stretch like minutes, minutes feel more like hours. Time is passing, but nothing is happening, nothing is changing. Tony is still floundering in the waves, the swimmers still have not reached him. I am pacing frantically, pointing and shouting in confusion. Why are they dawdling? Can’t they see he’s in trouble?

‘Go to Tony!’ I scream, waving my arms. ‘Help him! For God’s sake, can’t you see he’s drowning?’ Is he? I am shocked by what has just come out of my mouth. He can’t literally be drowning, can he? I am being hysterical. But the hysteria in my voice has unnerved me even more than my words. Is that really what is actually happening? Tony is drowning? That’s absurd; it’s not possible. But Christ, can’t they just hurry up and get to him?

People are streaming out of houses all along the beach. I see Michael, a friend who works in the guesthouse to our right, sprint into the water and fling a float attached to a rope – but the onshore breeze blows it back to his feet. Damian, another friend who works in the villa to our left, comes flying down the bank from the pool and hurls a life ring out to sea, but again the wind blows it back. As each rescue attempt flops, the scene begins to look like some sort of surreal slapstick pantomime; we are cartoonish in our frantic helplessness. For a fleeting moment I actually cringe, mortified to be the cause of such a public spectacle.

Because obviously Tony is going to be alright. For all the drama, he hasn’t actually gone under. The swimmers will reach him any second now, and in half an hour he will be drinking a Red Stripe and complaining about sand in his ears.

I am right. The swimmers do get to him. Somehow they have Michael’s float in their hand, and Michael is holding his end of the rope. The three men cluster around the float with Tony in their arms, and Michael stands in the surf and pulls. I take the rope in front of him, like a two-person tug-of-war team, and together we haul them ashore.

It is over. The panic has exhausted its jeopardy. Michael and I drag Tony onto the sand, and for the first time since I carried Jake out of the ocean I remember him. Now that Tony is safe, I turn my attention to our son. ‘Sweetheart, are you okay?’

He has not moved from the spot where I left him, and is sitting with legs outstretched, squirming. His hands rake the sand. ‘No.’ He is staring past my legs at his father, wide-eyed and white, his voice thin with anxiety. ‘No, I’m worried about Tony.’ I turn, expecting to see Tony sitting up. But he isn’t. His eyes aren’t even open. He is just lying there.

What? For a fraction of a second I’m confused. Then I think I understand. Oh Tony, I think, I know this was a proper scare – but there’s no need to ham it up and spin it out for the sake of the anecdote. Come on, Tone. Just sit up and open your eyes now so we can go back to being on holiday.

‘Dec,’ Jake says behind me. I turn back to look at him. ‘What’s that white stuff coming out of Tony’s nose?’

And then I see it. From each nostril, snaking down to his chin, trickles a stream of white foam. It looks like whipped egg white. I stare at it in shock. I have no idea what that foam is, or what it signifies. I am not a doctor. But even I can see it looks sinister, and dread begins to wrap itself around me.

Don’t be ridiculous, I tell myself. He probably just needs to vomit up a bucketload of seawater. But still Tony doesn’t move. I want to scream at him, ‘Wake up! A joke’s a joke, now wake the fuck up!’ But Jake is at my side, and Tony is surrounded by a semicircle of men, one of whom is kneeling over him and appears to be administering CPR. Tony really is unconscious. But he’s going to come round any moment. It’s just that the process will be messier than I had imagined. It is probably best, I think, if Jake does not watch.

‘Let’s go back up to the cottage and find Joe,’ I suggest lightly, taking his hand. ‘Joe’s probably wondering where we’ve got to.’ I lead Jake up the path back to the cottage, and find Joe on the deck, leaning over the railings, straining to see the commotion on the beach.

‘Is Tony going to be okay?’ Jake asks. ‘I think so,’ I say brightly, but even I can hear how brittle my breeziness sounds. ‘I think the doctors will come and make him better.’ Struggling to appear calm, I make my way into our bedroom to search for my phone. I think I have found it until I try to make a call and realise I am stabbing wildly at an iPod. By the time I locate my phone and call Jake’s, my fingers are shaking and I misdial twice before getting through.

A receptionist answers the phone with what feels like the longest greeting in the history of the hospitality industry: ‘Hello, this is Colleen speaking, welcome to Jake’s hotel in Treasure Beach. How may I direct your call?’ Before she can get it all out I hear myself screaming, ‘Send help now! Tony has been pulled from the water. He is unconscious. Send help now! Send someone, now!’ I hang up in a blur of shock, worried that I will have frightened Jake and Joe, embarrassed about sounding deranged, afraid that I will have caused an unnecessary fuss, and scared that help will not arrive in time.

‘We want to see Tony,’ Joe says. ‘Can we go and see him?’ I don’t know what to do, but think he must have come round by now, and the sooner the boys can see that he is fine the better. I take them by the hand and together we walk back down the path to the beach.

Where did all these people come from? Half an hour ago the beach had been deserted; now it looks like a carnival. People are streaming in from every direction; they are pouring through our garden, down the lane, along the beach. As we reach the gate I spot my friend Annabelle racing across the sand and falling to her knees beside Tony. Oh thank God, I think. Annabelle has medical training. Now that Annabelle is here, everything is going to be alright.

With Jake in one hand and Joe in the other, I lead them past the crowds and down to the water’s edge. From here we can see Annabelle’s back as she kneels over Tony. She knows what she is doing. Any second now he is going to throw up and come round; it can only be a matter of time. Someone in the crowd shouts at me, ‘Get your car keys, take him to the doctor!’ But the nearest hospital is half an hour away; how is that going to help?

As we stand and watch, warm waves lapping at our ankles, my mind allows just one horrifying thought. What if Tony has been unconscious for so long that when he comes round he will be brain-damaged? Please God no. This idea is so unthinkably shocking that when I see Annabelle press two fingers to his neck, it takes me a moment to register the significance. I stare, bewildered. Why is she checking for a pulse?

Annabelle’s fingers remain pressed to his neck. Then she looks up at the ring of faces gazing down at Tony and slowly shakes her head. I watch in disbelief. Is this some sort of joke? I keep staring, stunned. No. No no no no.