The Meaning of Water: Lessons in Being Saved and Trying to Save
When I was a kid, I nearly drowned chasing fish. Decades later, I tried to save someone else from drowning—and failed.
The ocean doesn’t care how big (or small) you are.
Water is one of the most powerful symbols in the human experience. It represents life, transformation, beauty, and danger. In stories and myths, water often symbolizes both the journey and the struggle—a passage to something new or an unpredictable force that overwhelms.
In my life, water has been both a calm, inviting place and an otherworldly force that pulled me under. I’ve been mesmerized by its beauty, drawn to its vastness, and felt at home in its embrace.
But I’ve learned (the hard way) that water doesn’t care about your intentions or your strength, or whether you’re confident, cautious, or desperate. It taught me about humility, surrender, and the harsh reality that we can’t always fight the current, no matter how hard we try.
These are two stories about water: one about being saved, and one about trying to save someone else.
Curiosity Nearly Killed Me
I was seven years old, playing at the beach in Honolulu. The swimming area was enclosed by a low rock wall, and the water inside was calm and shallow—perfect for a little kid armed with a plastic bucket and the unshakable conviction that I could catch some fish.
I was always a good swimmer, so a popular beach with plenty of kids didn’t set off any alarm bells. Crouched chest-deep, I dipped my bucket into the crystal-clear waters, aiming for a shimmering school of tiny fish. I was mesmerized by how they moved in perfect sync, darting just out of my reach, so focused that I didn’t notice a child-sized gap in the rock wall.
Like magic, the fish slipped through the gap, and disappeared into the open ocean. Impulsively, I chased after them but stopped just before the break.
Suddenly, I felt the current wrap around me like a pair of invisible arms, and in an instant, it swelled, overpowering me with unstoppable force. The ground dropped away beneath me as I was pulled into a fierce undertow. My small body spun helplessly as the water dragged me under.
Good swimmer or not, I was in serious trouble. The force was stronger than anything I’d ever felt, and I could barely keep my head above water.
My mother saw what happened and rushed to help, but the rocks were slippery, sharp, and I was just out of reach. She tried anyway, cutting her legs and feet on the stones.
Then, an older man arrived—a local—and together, they pulled me out. I was breathless, trembling, but alive.
A Lesson in Humility and Limitations
We’re often so confident in our ability to chase what we want that we forget: some forces are simply beyond our control.
Confidence is important, but it isn’t enough—and being humble enough to recognize when we’re out of our depth can be a lifesaving mindset. When I was chasing those fish, I didn’t think twice about the limits of my small body or the power of the ocean.
(Of course, I also didn’t realize there was any particular danger.)
The situation was well beyond what I could handle alone.
Balancing Curiosity and Caution
Many of us have experienced being caught up in the excitement of pursuing something beautiful, whether it’s a dream, a relationship, or a passion project. Our desire to build, love, or explore leads us to push boundaries without even realizing it.
But without at least some degree of caution, that curiosity can pull us into dangerous territory.
Some people lean too far on one side of this balance:
Overly cautious: They hesitate to chase anything beautiful because they fear the risks. They might never experience the thrill of pursuing something that sets their soul on fire.
Overly curious: They charge ahead without considering the consequences, constantly swept up in new pursuits without pausing to evaluate whether it’s safe or sustainable.
The reality is that you can let curiosity guide you while also keeping enough caution to recognize when you’re moving from safe exploration to reckless pursuit.
When Good Intentions Aren’t Enough
Decades later, I found myself back in the water—not as the one being rescued, but as the one trying to save someone else.
It was a hot July day at a beautiful lake in Minnesota. The summers there have a special quality: clear blue skies stretching endlessly overhead, sparkling waters, lush greenery swaying gently in the breeze, and the kind of warmth that makes you believe nothing bad could ever happen.
With a pink summer dress on, I was dockside at a campground where I was staying with friends, waiting to go out on a boat together.
Out of nowhere, I noticed a man struggling far out in the water. At first, I couldn’t tell if he needed help—he was clutching an inner tube, and it looked like he might just be catching his breath.
But then I heard his faint, strained calls for help, and I knew something was wrong.
My lifeguard instincts kicked in. I looked around for anything that could float, grabbing a seating pad from one of the boats, and dove in, dress and all. I swam as fast as I could, heart pounding in my chest, fighting the weight of my clothes.
When I finally reached him, I realized that he wasn’t alone.
Beneath the surface of the water, his 27-year-old son was fully submerged, tangled in thick, feathery strands of watermilfoil. The underwater plants had formed a dense, net-like mat that wrapped around his legs like ropes, keeping him submerged.
The young man had a strong athletic build, but it hadn’t mattered, as his feet were completely ensnared—his body now hanging motionless just below the water’s surface.
Horrified, I could only imagine how he must have felt losing consciousness within mere inches of lifesaving air.
The father was desperately trying to lift his son, his face etched with pain, panic, and exhaustion. I joined in with all the strength I had, hooking a shoulder with my arm and trying to lift him higher, but his water-logged weight and the pull of the weeds made it nearly impossible. The watermilfoil started to tangle around my own legs as I struggled to keep myself afloat, but I finally managed to get the young man’s head above water.
I shouted back to shore for help, the strain building in my arms as I fought to support his body with my own (and the seating pad).
Just as my own energy began to wane, another boater arrived. Together, the three of us managed to get the young man out of the water and onto the boat. The driver immediately began CPR, and I slowly swam back to shore, my muscles trembling with exhaustion and shock.
When I reached the dock, I could barely stand, my consciousness dazed and flooded with the chaos and muted hum of people rushing around. My dress clung to me, soaked and heavy as I tried to catch my breath.
We all waited anxiously for the ambulance to arrive.
Still alive, the young man was taken to the hospital. After telling the police what happened, I wandered off and broke down, my mind spinning with questions.
How long was he there? How did I not even see him struggle? Had he been there seconds? Minutes? Could I have done something differently? Should I have reacted faster? If I had been physically stronger, would it have mattered?
The weight of the guilt pressed down on me like the watermilfoil, tight and unrelenting. I couldn’t sleep that night, lying awake and replaying the scene over and over, praying that he would survive.
When I later learned that he didn’t make it, I was devastated. I spent days in bed, weeks disillusioned, and years haunted by the experience. I still can’t imagine what his loved ones must have gone through.
A Lesson About Strength and Surrender
Letting go when you’ve done all you can is one of the hardest parts of being human.
For a long time, I couldn’t accept that. The feeling that I could’ve and should’ve done more hung over me for quite some time.
This feeling translates to the rest of life as well: In the past, I held onto experiences, ideas, nostalgia, friendships, and relationships, convinced that if I was just patient enough, forgiving enough, tried harder, or forced my will, I could keep sinking ships afloat.
I lived with the belief that with my effort alone, I could evade or overcome the inevitability of loss. But despite our best efforts and intentions, we can’t always control situations, or save other people.
Over time, I’ve come to realize that humility and surrender aren’t just about recognizing when you need help; they’re also about fully accepting when your best isn’t enough.
Lifeboats and Letting Go
In the first story, those who saved me from the undertow were my lifeboat. In the second story, I wanted so badly to be the lifeboat for someone else, but I couldn’t.
Both stories involve control—or the loss of it.
There are moments when we are the ones being saved, and others when we’re desperately trying (and perhaps failing) to save someone else. Both roles require courage and humility.
Control is an illusion that slips through our hands when we think we need it most.
But trying your absolute best (even when it falls short) is its own kind of bravery.
Sometimes, even our best efforts can’t change the outcome. That’s a hard truth to accept, but it doesn’t mean we didn’t give everything we had.
Likewise, when we’re caught up in something beautiful like a dream, a goal, or a relationship, it’s easy to believe that simply pushing harder will make it work. But that pursuit can pull us into dangerous waters—places where our well-being, safety, or sense of self are at risk.
There’s strength in knowing when to let go, when to pause, and when to ask for help. In fact, these moments of surrender can be just as virtuous as perseverance—not signs of weakness, but acts of wisdom.
In letting go, we allow ourselves to be carried, not by force or determination, but by acceptance, and the quiet courage to find peace in a reality we can’t change.