Drowning and being saved

I should write this down before I forget. My cat once nearly drowned. No, that was me. I once nearly drowned. In Trinidad. At Maracas Beach. “I was swimming in the Caribbean!” There were some kind of retreating current that could pull you into the deep seas if you didn’t notice you were there, of if you weren’t a good swimmer. I got stuck in one of those and before I knew what was what, I was being swallowed by the Caribbean Sea. I was maybe 8 years old. And I didn’t know I was drowning until I was being hauled out of the waters by a big muscular black man who was scolding me because I kept resisting his attempts to save me. In shallow waters where a crowd had gathered, I tried my best to make the guard let go of me finally realising what had happened and feeling a little guilty and embarrassed about the entire spectacle of my imminent death; and my parents were still oblivious of my adventures. But my cat was the same. He explored out of the house too far into outer-space where no cat has ever gone before, and couldn’t find his way back. When I went searching for him everywhere, to rescue him from being swallowed by the outer, alien world, I found him on the floor below our’s, having responded to his name with a tiny meow, as I bellowed his name out. I picked him up and brought him home, and he struggled to let me release him at the door where he knew for sure he was safe. Like me at the place where the sea meets the sand and sky. There’s a storm there. A sort of temporary peace, drifting in and out.

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