The Stranger

by Lis Anna-Langston

I drowned off the coast of Colombia on an overcast day.

We were in South America because my mom and her boyfriend, Larry, were running drugs—marijuana, cocaine, gemstones, whatever moved. Bogotá was our first stop: fumes, buses, nonstop motion. From there, we headed to the coast, chasing contacts and dope. At night, I heard her and Larry fighting. I learned everything through the walls. Back home I heard my grandmother whisper on the phone, her voice taut with worry before we climbed on a plane destined for distant shores, far from our home in North Mississippi. 

I stood on the pebbled shore that sloped sharply into the deep, uneasy waters of the Atlantic. My mother insisted I join her on a float.  My refusal made her irritable. I didn’t want to get on the raft. The water was rough. The gray sky pressed low. Still, she wore me down. I climbed on, gut tight with dread, and watched the shore drift away. This wasn’t the Gulf. This was colder, darker. Meaner. The waves grew erratic, and I could feel the ocean’s grip tighten. 

I didn’t believe in God, but my grandmother did and in her old house, I’d learned a thing or two about the Holy Ghost. There was nothing holy about the sky that sunk low enough to touch the surface of water. Larry stood on the beach, at a fixed point. I closed my eyes to steady myself. When I opened them again, he laid a towel on the ground and sat down. That was the last thing I saw.  

One second, I bobbed on the water. The next second an undertow jerked me under. I flipped violently. My chest burned as I fought the current, arms slicing through the water. I hadn’t taken a deep breath. I somersaulted underwater, lungs tight, panic rising. 

Then suddenly I hit the ocean floor. My eyes flew open, horrified by what I saw. Above me, sunlight quivered on the surface, impossibly far away. I had seconds left. Not enough air. Not enough time. Death felt inescapable. My chest already hurt. I didn’t have enough air to make it to the surface even if I used the bottom as a springboard to launch myself up. It was all too far away. Sunlight trembled above. 

I simply closed my eyes. 

I didn’t think of my mother in those final seconds. I didn’t think about the raft, or Larry, or the drugs. I thought of my eight years.  My whole life. Not a long time, but an exciting one. Almost a decade. Almost. That would have to be enough. There is no air at the bottom of the ocean, only surrender. Seconds after I closed my eyes I felt the cool churning water swallow me alive. 

That was the last thing I remember.

Then—nothing.

I must have floated up, limp and unconscious. No bright tunnel. Just a balmy dark.

Sound came first: waves, muffled voices, Larry saying, “Keep going.” Then the pressure of hands on my chest. My body convulsed. I vomited saltwater. I choked, coughed, came alive.

A stranger leaned over me, his brow creased with worry. He must have run at the sound of cries, must have waded into the surf, must have dragged me from the grip of the sea. It took me a second but then I realized he was the one who pumped sea water from my lungs and gave me mouth to mouth. A stranger with dark wavy hair who didn’t speak my language, nor I his. Yet there we were, covered in sand and pebbles relieved to be staring into each other’s eyes. I can still see his face. Even now as I write this. Maybe especially now. Two people bound forever in that single moment. 

My parents, experts in blow and paranoia, were useless when it came to CPR. They screamed for help, and he answered. He wasn’t on the beach when I floated out to sea. He must’ve arrived in those final moments, drawn by instinct or fate. He must’ve come to the sound of cries. He must have come to save me. 

Later, I walked through a city of stone walls and cannons, past narrow alleys and market carts. A deep déjà vu settled over me. I felt I’d been there before. Had drowned before. And somewhere, in another time, the stranger had saved me before. Which meant he wasn’t a stranger at all. He was some kind of déjà vu hero who appeared repeatedly to save my life, each time getting better, each time perfecting the routine. A timeless guardian who woke early, finished his coffee fast, grabbed his keys, and raced out the door. 

Just in time to save me.

 

Hailed as “an author with a genuine flair for originality” by Midwest Book Review, Lis Anna-Langston is the award-winning author of Skinny Dipping in a Dirty Pond, Gobbledy, Tupelo Honey, Maya Loop, Wild Asses of the Mojave Desert and the short story collection Tolstoy & the Checkout Girl. Her novels have won the NYC Big Book Award, Independent Press Awards, Parents’ Choice Awards and many others. A three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has appeared in more than 40 publications, including The Literary Review, The Brussels Review, Emerson Review, Hobart, Barely South Review, and Emrys Journal. She studied Literature at Webster University, completed coursework with the Great Smokies Writing Program at UNC Asheville and graduated Magna Cum Laude with a degree in Creative Writing. When she’s not writing, you can find her in the wilds of South Carolina, plucking stories out of thin air.