The Rescue of Sam and Dickie

It was Christmas Day, a time for laughter, family, and overindulgence. My wife Ita, my 3½-year-old daughter Jessica, and I were spending the day with family at my sister’s house in Forrestfield. The usual festivities were underway, but Sam, my brother-in-law, was itching to try out his new toy—a remote-controlled tugboat named Dickie. He’d spent weeks perfecting every detail, eager to see it in action on the ornamental lake a couple of kilometers down the road.

So, after a round of Christmas cheer, we set off—just the four of us—to give Dickie his maiden voyage. It was a picture-perfect afternoon: the sky was clear, the lake was still, and the grand fountain in the center was spraying a fine mist into the warm summer air.

Sam placed Dickie gently on the water and, with a flick of the remote, sent him chugging toward the fountain. But, as fate would have it, within seconds, the little boat lost propulsion. Dead batteries. Instead of returning triumphantly to shore, Dickie simply bobbed in place, at the mercy of the gentle ripples.

Now, logic might have suggested waiting to see if the boat would drift back naturally. But Sam, being Sam, was having none of that. Without hesitation, he kicked off his shoes, and waded in, determined to reclaim his precious vessel.

At first, it was fine. The water was shallow, his confidence high. But with every step, the lakebed sloped away beneath him. Soon, he was waist-deep. Then chest-deep. Then he was swimming.

I stood at the edge, camera in hand, snapping a few shots of this ridiculous scene, watching as Sam paddled awkwardly toward Dickie, who was now drifting ever further away. Ita and Jessica watched too, giggling at the spectacle. But the laughter stopped when Sam, now near to the fountain, suddenly stopped making progress.

Then, panic.

He flailed. His strokes became desperate, erratic. He went under once, then resurfaced, coughing and gasping.

“Help!” he choked out. “Help!”

That’s when everything changed.

The Choice

I have a deep-seated fear of water. Always have. Ever since I nearly drowned at Scarborough Beach in the early ‘70s, caught in a rip and barely making it back to shore. I can swim—badly—but the idea of deep water grips me with terror.

And yet, in that moment, standing on the bank, I knew there was no choice. I couldn’t just stand there and watch Sam drown. Not on Christmas Day. Not in front of Ita, not in front of Jessica. Not with the knowledge that I’d have to go back to my sister’s house and explain to the family why Sam wasn’t coming home.

I was furious. Furious that I had to do this. Furious that he had been so reckless. Furious that my own fears had to take a backseat to what had to be done. And most of all, furious that I was unprepared for the one task that now mattered most.

By now, Sam had passed the fountain. Dickie was merrily floating toward the opposite shore, oblivious to the chaos.

If I was going to reach him, I needed to think. Running in directly from where I stood would be too far. I needed to shorten the distance. So, I sprinted around the lake to the opposite bank, already out of breath before even hitting the water.

Shoes off. Shirt off. Socks off. Jeans off. Into the water.

I waded in as far as I could before I had to start swimming. My lungs were burning before I even reached the halfway point. I wasn’t fit, and now I had to summon strength I didn’t have.

Then, Sam disappeared under the water.

I pushed harder, my arms slicing through the water in desperation. Just as I reached him, I saw nothing but ripples where he’d been. I plunged my hand into the dark water and grabbed—hair.

I pulled.

His head broke the surface, eyes wide with panic, spluttering, coughing, but alive.

I turned him onto his back, remembering life-saving lessons from when I was 13. I was on my back now too, dragging him, one hand under his chin, the other arm trying to propel us backwards toward shore. My legs kicked, my lungs screamed, my heart pounded. He was dead weight, barely able to move, his limbs immobile with cramps, his energy completely spent.

I had no idea how I did it. No clue where the strength came from.

Somehow—somehow—I felt the muddy bottom of the lake again.

Christmas Day, a peaceful lake, a toy boat named Dickie, and a simple retrieval mission—what could go wrong? Within minutes, Sam was drowning, I was out of breath, and fate had handed me a choice: stand frozen in fear or dive into the unknown.

The Aftermath

We sat there at the edge of the water, collapsed, breathless, my arms still locked around him. Two half-naked, soaking wet dudes, sprawled in exhaustion. To the passersby, a couple and their dog, who hadn’t seen what just happened, it must have looked… questionable.

It took a good ten minutes before either of us could move.

Eventually, we made our way back home, dripping wet, Sam silent. He walked straight to his room without saying a word.

I stood near the back door, wondering what to say. How to explain. All I could blurt out to my sister was, "Sam nearly drowned!"

But I don’t think she understood the weight of it. The real weight of it. How close we’d come.

I collapsed in a heap, the adrenaline that had been my lifeline now abandoning me, leaving a hollow emptiness in its wake.

Two deaths could have been pronounced at 5:47 PM, December 25th, 2006. But somehow, against fear, exhaustion, and odds, I dragged Sam back from the depths.

The Bond of Silence

It's 2025. Eighteen years have passed, and Sam and I have never spoken of that day. No words, no reminiscing—just silence. Yet, something lingers between us, an unspoken, unbroken thread woven by that moment in the water.

Before then, we were never close, too different in too many ways. But ever since, there’s been a quiet, almost imperceptible bond. Fragile, yet undeniably there—like the memory of a Christmas that nearly ended in tragedy, but instead became something else entirely.

Reflection

Looking back on my life, there have been successes, failures, loves, losses. But if I had to pinpoint the single most worthwhile thing I’ve ever done—something truly valuable—it wasn’t making money. It wasn’t acquiring things. It wasn’t any career achievement.

It was saving a life.

Not in some grand, heroic way, with medals or recognition. Just in a raw, desperate moment where instinct overruled fear, where hesitation could have meant death. A moment that still lingers in the back of my mind, not as triumph, but as a reminder of how fragile the line between life and loss can be.

And to this day, I still have a deep fear of water.

And Dickie?

That little bastard made it to the other side just fine.

“Maybe—just maybe—this was the reason for my life. The one moment where everything I had been, every fear, every misstep, every triumph, all converged into something that truly mattered.”