I saved a stranger’s life at the beach. I’m not sure I’d do it again

As a nearly 43-year-old bloke who had major abdominal surgery just over 12 months ago, I try to look after myself, but I’m not especially fit. I try to go to my local YMCA and get on the treadmill and rowing machines a couple of nights a week to maintain some sort of fitness, but that’s it.

I’m no swimmer either. I was once. Now, I’m lucky to jump in the gym pool and swim three or four times a year. Still, I’ve always thought I’d be able to handle myself at the beach. I never expected how close I would come to drowning.

A lazy day at the beach turned into a terrifying situation.Credit: Anthony Blunden

My wife and I are both teachers in Melbourne and lucky enough to spend some of our holidays in Queensland. A few days ago we took our young children down to Maroochydore beach, as we often do. While we don’t often put up our beach tent near or between the flags, we like to think we are safe with our children. Our daughter Harriet is seven and our son Henry is about to turn five, so we never allow them to go into the ocean without us holding their hands, and we never take them beyond waist depth.

After four hours of blissful relaxation on a perfect sunny day, Harriet and I were packing up the sand castle toys and getting ready to go home when a man’s voice behind me asked, “Is that your son out there?”

I felt a moment of panic. Where’s Henry? I looked to where he had been watching a crab scuttle along the sand and there he was. Quiet as a mouse, vigilantly guarding it from seagulls. “Nah mate, my son is just there.”

The bloke then pointed to a teenage boy out behind the breaks in the surf, maybe 100 metres out from the shore. I spotted him, one arm up and yelling for help, clearly struggling while being pulled out deeper. I didn’t think, I just ran out into the waves with my sunnies still on.

Rowland Melville’s children pictured earlier in the day on the Maroochydore beach where he almost drowned. 

As it turns out, swimming in breaking surf, even when the waves are less than a metre, is much tougher than doing laps in the pool. When I got closer to the boy, I could see he was about 16. I shouted out to him. He responded: “I can’t swim.”

I could see that he was going to be heavy. As I approached, I paused for a moment to tell him to not grab my neck. He promptly grabbed my neck all the same, and we went under. A quick push to get him off, and I was soon fighting to keep him above the water and at arm’s length, while yelling at him to not grab my neck.

I wasn’t aware at the time, but my wife was meanwhile sprinting 200 metres up the beach to get a lifeguard.

Did I mention the boy, who looked just like one of my VCE students, was in the middle of a rip? Probably not, because I only realised that myself as I tried to pull him back to shore while battling the current. Hard yakka.

Eventually, I dragged us to a depth where I could just stand on my toes in between the waves, but it felt like dry land was a mile away. The boy, not as tall as me, was attempting to use me as step-ladder, which meant with every swell he pinned me underwater. I was out of breath, taking in mouthfuls of water every time I tried to gulp air. Fighting against the ocean and the boy, I could feel my strength draining. I thought we were done for.

It was here, in the ocean, about 50 metres from the shore, with my children watching on helplessly, that I had a moment of clarity. I recalled those tragic tales about untrained beachgoers drowning while trying to save others. In between the waves I thought “you idiot, you’re about to be that guy”. Here I was, trying to help someone when I’m unfit and untrained for surf rescue.

I realised I had to do something, so mustered every bit of energy that I could and pushed the boy off me and towards the beach, so I could get clear and get some air.

Fortunately, at that moment a surfer arrived from out of nowhere to offer us his board. It took every ounce of effort that I had left to keep up with them as he paddled the boy into shallower water before two lifeguards arrived as I stumbled into ankle-deep water.

I can’t tell you for sure how long the entire incident took. It felt like an eternity, but my wife later assured me I was in the water for no more than 10 minutes.

I was spent. All I could do was fall onto the beach and suck in air as the waves continued to break nearby. My wife and I were both in shock at how close I’d come to drowning.

Did the boy express gratitude that we’d saved his life? Nup. He ran away. Perhaps he felt shame at getting caught in a rip when he couldn’t swim. How he had the energy to run was a mystery to me – for a long time afterwards I was still struggling to even stand and breathe.

Later that night as I prepared to fly back to Melbourne for a close friend’s funeral I pondered my own near-death experience. What had just happened? Did that boy realise how close he had come to drowning? Did the surfer who saved us with his board before nonchalantly paddling back out to catch more waves realise how close I had also been to drowning? What about the lifeguards who’d left me spent on the sand, as they promptly returned to their post between the flags?

I don’t know. But what I do know is that I’m not sure I would run out into the surf to try to save a stranger again. We hear about drownings every summer, yet in the moment, I had no sense of my own limitations or the risk I faced when I instinctively ran to help that boy.

My advice? Swim only between the flags. If you see someone in trouble, run to lifeguards and get professional help. Everything really can change in an instant.

The next day, as I dressed for my mate’s funeral, I could only think how it might have been my wife wondering how she would organise mine.

Rowland Melville is a Melbourne teacher.

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