paper tiger

On a secluded stretch of beach, in the shadow of Le’ahi, the body of a little boy tumbles in the waves.

I don’t think I’ve ever saved a life before. Besides my own.

I’m drowning.

At least, not in any direct sense; I’ve thrown no children clear of oncoming juggernauts, never had to administer cardio-pulmonary resusc., tie a tourniquet, or perform the Heimlich manoeuvre in any situation other than jest.

The waves that roll onto the shores of Waikiki beach are immense. Away from the sand, in the open water, these understated, heaving polyphemes buoy you up and down in rhythmic succession, a slow and gentle caress.

Then, it is neither easy nor sensible to try to fathom the myriad differences that your absence could, would, have made to the world around. I've had people cry disconsolately, hard against my chest, yank me violently from my peaceable dreams to face their realities at zero hour, had cause to fear the suicide, pains of anorexia, sexual assault, or depression of people I love as well as those I know next to nothing about.

Only to crash onto the shore without compromise. What value has any medal when your skills in the water are trivialised by such an overwhelming power? Squeezed into a ball, I can straighten neither arms nor legs, nor gain purchase, nor orientate myself; I can't breathe.

And there are times when I just don't want to know, but can't stop listening.

Desperation keeps my eyes open, though all I can see is the white rush of the water, loaded with biting grit. I inhale, an accident, but choke in shock, my lungs seizing as if winded by a blow to the ribs. It is now that I really do see lights, like a white aurora dotted with stars, overwhelming everything. Then fingers. They tear across my scalp, holding me fast by my hair, and heave me into the shallows.

It doesn't seem fair, at times, but I guess that there could be a thousand and two different reasons for which any one person should come to depend so unreasonably, so heavily, upon themselves.

I gasp for air, and throw up violently. She kicks me in the ribs with a stern grin, "Be more careful next time!", and scampers off. I think she missed the enormity of what she did for me, just then.

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? a lover once put to me.

Really. Who does?