Riptide.

The night before this photo was taken, I thought I was going to die.

The sun was starting to set as I walked back to the remote resort Curtis and I chose in what’s called El Salvador’s Wild East. My camera hung at my side and blood dripped down my shins, freshly cut from the volcanic rock I had tried to maneuver over in hopes of capturing Curt in his element.

I was on my way back to clean myself up. At least that’s what I told Curtis I’d do. But as I looked around at the black sand, the thick rainforest, and the clear sky, I didn't want to waste a moment.

So, I set my camera down and walked into the ocean. I dove through a few waves, watched as the sky changed from orange to pink, and tucked the moment away as a memory to look back on during those cold, rainy December days that were sure to come. I was at peace—until I felt the pull of the current. The tide swept me out and the ocean opened up beneath me.

“I’ll just swim back to shallower water when the next wave comes,” I thought. I tried a few times, but no luck. When I looked back at the shore, my heart sank. I was so far out the hotel was the size of a monopoly piece.

Still, I didn't panic. I knew what to do in a riptide. I started swimming to the right, parallel to the beach, just like I’d seen in all the ocean safety videos. I swam and swam, but still, I couldn’t make any ground. This was nothing like an ocean safety video.

Waves continued to crash over my head. I went under, I came up, I swam, I coughed, I went under, I came up, I swam, I choked, I went under, I came up. Nothing.

Then, I started screaming. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I heard my voice crack and break over the crashing waves. I screamed for Curtis, for help, for anyone. The adrenaline pumped again when I realized nobody could hear me, nobody could see me, and nobody knew I was in the ocean. Headlines started pouring through my head.

“Oregon woman drowns in El Salvador.”

“Portland family mourns after daughter dies on surf trip.”

“No,” I huffed. I swallowed my tears, gritted my teeth, and swam as hard as I could towards the beach. Of course, it didn’t work. I was only getting more tired.

I knew I had to keep my panic in check. I was all I had, and that had to be enough. “I’m not done.” I repeated this phrase until I could get a grip on what to do next.

I looked to the left at the waves crashing against the volcanic rock jutting out into the ocean. I knew all too well how sharp it was, but that didn’t matter anymore. I just needed to get to solid ground. So, I flipped to my back and started kicking. Eventually, my feet touched the sand, and I walked out of the ocean as if nothing had happened.

The next morning, Curtis and I had scheduled a boat ride to surf another wave. I held Curtis' hand the whole way, unsure if I was going to be able to get in the water again. When we rounded the corner to Las Flores, the sun was shining, the water was glassy, and the surf was perfection. Without hesitation, I hopped on my board and paddled out to the lineup.

I caught the wave of my life that day.

Now and then, when work feels stressful or life feels overwhelming, I think back to this experience. I think about the panic I felt, the determination that followed, and the waves I surfed the very next day. If there’s anything I learned from it all, it’s that fear is only as real as we make it.