A near-death experience? It's a scary moment. One foot's in the afterlife, the other in the living world. It tends to change people. A regular clown coasting through life suddenly changes into a philosopher.
I had mine, a few years back, at sea. I was in Shimoni, an idyllic resort village on the Kenyan coast - pissing distance to the Kenya -Tanzania border. It's quite small, with stretching pristine beaches, marine life and ultra-friendly people.
Besides, it's the gateway to Wasini Island - a piece of rock with a mangrove forest brimming with an unique scion of an half-Arabic tribe.
Easily, the world's most beautiful women are on Wasini Island.
Now, Shimoni and Wasini Island is divided by an expanse of sea water, a channel. There are dhows shuttling cargo to and from Zanzibar. Tanga, perhaps. Fishing canoes and pimped-up tourist boats are a dime a dozen.
Just so you know, I had immense clout in the campus swimming pool. I'd do laps. I'd 'train' campus bimbos to swim. I was a fish! That's my mindset when I land in Shimoni. I was wrong. I almost died - and, worse, Mama thought I was in my campus hostel.
It was towards evening. I had spent the entire afternoon basking, swimming and chatting random locals - fishermen, beach boys. It was a market day. On this day, Wasini Island natives (mostly menfolk) would cross the channel to Shimoni market for essentials - sugar, soap, and such stuff. Ordinary, right?
What's not ordinary is that most of the men wouldn't use a canoe, or anything. They'd swim across. Unbelievable, right?
On the beach, I watch bemused as a couple of men waterproof their shopping. They'd wrap their shopping in polythene bags, put it in backpacks - and, stroll into the water. At the time, the high tide was webbing - to low tide. In local-speak, the sea is 'going to sleep'.
I approach them, and strike a banter. They are pleasantly friendly, and offer to host me for the night.
For a backpacking campus student on a tight budget, that offer is oh-so-sweet. Problem is, there's no boat. I have to swim across the channel.
From Shimoni beach, the island doesn't seem THAAAT far. If you've had your share of vision-enhancing carrots, you can spot human movement on the island. I asked for a polythene bag, and water-proofed my phone, T-shirt, jeans and hoodie. Let's do this.
I'm the GOAT in the campus swimming pool. If only I had a drone to record this epic swim.
I also reckoned the men to be in their late 30's and mid'40's. Dammit. If a 40-yr-old can cross that expanse of water, a 24-yr-old campus swimming legend should do triple the trips.
Oh boy, wasn't I so wrong - a misjudgment that I almost paid for with my life?
We waded into the water till it was chin-up. We then struck out. We are swimming in a group, backpacks bobbing up and down in the waves. The tide is webbing - so, at the start of the swim, the current is carrying us into the middle of the channel. It's a brisk swim - and, wait for it - the Wasini men are in conversation, through out.
Basically, like you'd idly talk to a kinsman on a village path.
Twenty minutes into the swim, it's getting rough. The waves are crashing in on us. I'm getting stinging water up my nose. I try to look at my friends. I cannot spot any of the 40-yr-olds, or, anyone else, if you ask.
I change from breast stroke, into a back stroke position - I need to see how far into the channel I have come. I can always swim back, right? Oh, crap - I'm in the middle of the channel.
It seems, the distance back to Shimoni Island is perhaps equal to the rest of the way to the island. Ah, pain is weakness leaving the body. I decided to strike on.
I flip back to breast stroke. A bit of side stroke. I try, but I still cannot spot anyone. A streak of panic starts to creep in.
It's the worst timing, but weird marine life videos I've watched on NatGeo come to mind. Sharks ripping off a swimmer's arm. I hear dolphins save drowning people - but, hey, dolphins hardly ever swim in the evening.
At some point, I can't feel my arms. I have no idea how far out I am. I can feel my Bermuda shorts slipping off my butt. It also seemed like water had seeped into my backpack. It's twice heavier. I shrug it off my back - bye, dear phone - and flipped onto backstroke position. I needed rest - float a bit on the waves.
When asked about their last moments, survivors usually talk of thinking about their loved ones. I was a campus student. Campus students hardly ever have a special 'loved one'. I started thinking of memes, funny TikTok videos. A puzzle keeps the mind awake in survival situations. I had one.
"Suppose you marry a widow who has a grown-up daughter, and your father marries the grown-up daughter. Now, the widow's daughter becomes your mother. Since your mother's mother is your wife, your wife is also your grandmother. As the husband of your grandmother, you also become your own grandfather...."
I'm slightly hazy. I'm trying to paddle, to keep afloat. I feel tears. I'm losing the battle. The sea seems to be winning.
I don't know what really happened. I came to, on a sandy beach - someone's lips on my lips - blowing hair into my lungs. I was being resuscitated. To my dying day, I'll never forget the smell of tobacco on my savior's breath.
I remember a huge wave of gratitude to life as the sea water was leaving my body through my urine, vomit, nose, ears and eyes.
I cried like a baby. I sobbed, with complex, unknown mixed feelings. Some weird longing for some peace in surrender - under the water. I'd never felt that level of peace before - swaying between life and death.
Enjoy the ocean, but, beware. She's a ruthless mistress.
