My teacher and I kept this secret for decades: she saved my life

For 30 years, I kept a secret: a teacher at my primary school saved my life.

These days, as a doctor, my workdays are long and the homework afterwards even longer. Sometimes, after my children have gone to bed, memories of my own childhood return, many as vivid as yesterday. In the evening of my memory, my thoughts often go to two teachers from my primary school: one whose classes gave me a start in life, the other who made sure I didn’t lose it.

The survivor: Louis Wang as an 11-year-old student at Woollahra Public School.

I attended Woollahra Public School in Sydney’s eastern suburbs in the 1990s when, by some fluke of the cosmos, I gained admission to its opportunity-class program. There were 60 students, divided into two classes. I adored the teacher who took me for the two years, but I didn’t get to know the teacher of the other class very well. During those two years, I often hid from her in the playground because I thought she was strict. Now I wish I hadn’t.

In term 4 of 1994, we had year 6 camp on the Grose River in the Hawkesbury Valley. Our classes, while staying at Camp Yarramundi, went on a bushwalk. Naturally, and despite our teachers’ best efforts, we got lost. To get back to the cabins, our group ended up taking a “detour”. The path we chose hugged a deep ravine. Along the way, we had to climb a hill about three metres high, but certainly manageable for 12-year-old legs. My own teacher went up first to show the way.

The ravine was right beneath us, so the “strict” teacher from the other class stayed back and stood guard on the narrow path, which teetered over the sheer drop of 15 metres. She waited patiently by that edge for each student to safely make the climb.

I was to be the last of 20 or 30 students to attempt the ascent. When my turn came, the ground had already been loosened by the scrambling of so many other kids. Halfway up, the ground gave way. I lost my footing and tumbled backwards. I hurtled towards the narrow path and – inevitably, given my momentum – over the edge and into the ravine.

When I slipped during a bushwalk on a school camp, it was a teacher who was there to catch me.Credit: iStock

But no, this teacher somehow caught me. Remarkably, my falling weight didn’t carry both of us over the edge to our deaths. On that sliver of a path, we looked at each other. If she hadn’t grabbed me, it was certain death for me. After taking a moment to gather ourselves, we together made the climb to safety.

After we had all safely returned to camp, the other kids headed straight for the pool. Before joining them, I found our teachers, who were on pool supervision duty. The teacher who’d saved my life stopped me before I could say anything.

“We both got really lucky today,” she remarked, “but it’s probably best that we don’t mention it ever again.” Back then, I could not understand why she wanted to keep her heroic deed a secret. Later, I realised that my near miss might have created some extra “paperwork”.

I kept quiet. Even my parents didn’t know.

After I left school, I managed to reconnect with my own teacher a couple of times, but I never got to properly thank the other teacher. When I was old enough to drive, I went back to my old primary school but was told that she had retired. Many years later, when I thought it would be a good idea to write to her, I sadly learnt that she was gone forever.

Looking back at my time in primary school, the only remarkable thing I ever did was fall over. However, when I slipped, it was a teacher who was there to catch me. I’ve come to realise that this is the very essence of teaching. Many of our greatest heroes, our best teachers and mentors, have been the ones who have watched over us, sometimes without our knowledge, ready to catch us should we stumble.

As another school year draws to a close, let’s thank all the teachers and staff who work tirelessly in our schools, universities and training programs for what they do each day.

To all the teachers out there, if you ever get a warm fuzzy feeling out of the blue, it’s probably because, somewhere, across the fabric of space and time, an old student of yours is reaching out to you. Please know that they are thinking of you and hoping you’re OK. And that warm fuzzy feeling? That’s the inner child of a former student letting you know that, thanks to you, they turned out OK too.

Associate Professor Louis Wang is a Sydney doctor. This article is dedicated to GH and CR, both legendary teachers at Woollahra Public School.

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