Nocturnal Dip Gone Awry

A few Bilbao cousins had, in the distant past, a penchant for over-imbibing.  One summer afternoon, a small band, along with a visiting friend, convened at the rear of the Johnson Ice Factory for drinks.   Their tippling and attendant bacchanalia continued well into the evening, past dinner, adjourning only with the quasi sari-sari store’s closing, everyone exceedingly inebriated.

Parting company, our home-bound group consisted of myself, a cousin, and the friend, who, dreadfully besotted, was mumbling incoherently and could barely walk.

The route home — a pathway strewn with fallen cocopalm limbs, fronds, and husks — seemed an imprudent choice in the dark of night, to say nothing of our condition,  so we opted for the beach instead.  Walking by the water’s edge, our trek was made easier by the wet sand firm under our feet.

Reaching a spot fronting our beach homes, all would’ve been well but for an impulsive, reckless play: Night Swimming.

It would invigorate us, we rationalized, and would surely rouse our friend back to some semblance of lucidity.

Our nocturnal dip could not have been more ill-advised.

No sooner had we plunged in that we lost sight of our friend who sunk like a rock.  The seriousness of the situation all too apparent, we quickly dove beneath the surface and, in the inky blackness, frantically groped the sandy bottom in search of him.  He was nowhere to be found!  Out of air we surfaced, and, seeing the panic in each other’s eyes, resumed our search with steely determination.   There was to be no drowning in Happy Valley that summer — it simply would be too ruinous of La Dolce Vita.

To our immense relief, this time around we found him and not a moment too soon.  Expeditiously pulling him to shore, we found that he was alright. Thankfully he had managed to hold his breath while submerged. And this was just as well, as CPR would have been the last thing we could’ve done with any proficiency.

Stretched out on the beach in a semi-conscious stupor, it took every ounce of our strength to get our very tall and exceedingly heavy friend upright.  Supporting him on each side, our necks disconcertingly locked under his armpits, we stood still for a moment catching our breath.  Our victory was short-lived however as his dead-weight pulled us such that we began tilting backwards, slightly at first, then angled even more until gravity tipped us into a free-fall!  “Oop-oop-oop-oop…!” we stammered as our hapless fall inexorably got underway.  In unison we hit the sand flat on our backs, our heads just making the waterline so as to splash seawater into our mouths that were open wide in riotous laughter. 

Repeating the arduous task, we eventually got him up the beach into a waiting tent.

The ‘big fella’ awoke the next morning recalling only the prior day’s immoderation and nothing of the near-tragedy.  Save for a hangover, he was none the worse for wear.

Needless to say, henceforth, we swam only during the day and nearly always sober.