What’s on my mind? Remember that scene in Lawrence of Arabia in which the murderer sinks to his death after getting stuck in quicksand? Nor do I, but something similar happened to me, a non-murderer, the other day.
Tra-lee, tra-la ... Innocently traversing a muddy beach at low tide, I began sinking. I mean really sinking, as in dangerously.
“Or-rence! Or-rence!” I screamed. “Help! Help!”
Himself tried to pull me out, but couldn’t.
“I’ll bring a sheet of plywood!” yelled a construction worker who was transforming a $400,000 beach house into a $4.5 million gem.
I was going down like a porn star. Plunging like a broken elevator. Sinking faster than the stock market on a mouthy Trump day. Although my life didn’t flash before my eyes, I felt relieved not to have wasted it on something stupid like sit-ups.
Himself forced me to try my best to get on all fours. Not in a doggie-style sort of way, but in a let’s-save-your-life sort of way. It was very, very difficult to do that. My chest was heavy with mud. And then Himself pulled - HARD! The sand kept sucking me down. HARDER! He made a little progress. HARDER, HARDER!
(I did say not in a doggie-style sort of way, didn’t I?)
(I did say not in a doggie-style sort of way, didn’t I?)
The construction worker who’d offered the sheet of plywood was now reluctant, probably envisioning lost profits. Instead, he stood there yammering about some guy who was nearly killed in the deceptively calm waters beyond the sand. A whirlpool grabbed him and he went in circles for 30 minutes until some Tarzan-type swam to his rescue.
This is the sort of thing the tourist brochures omit.
Himself managed to yank me out. I lost a shoe, but not my life. With skill, cunning, and bravery, Himself dug my shoe from the mud. All’s well that ends well.
Himself says his only regret is that he didn’t pause to film the scene. But then I might have been in even greater peril. And the construction worker might have lost a perfectly good sheet of plywood.
© Nicole Parton, 2019
