The old man had managed to reach the dock before his hips gave out. The pain was pulsating through his body, especially on the left side, causing him to sit as gingerly as possible on the hard, worn wooden bench. The one that was closest to the water. The dock served as an unofficial fishing spot as well as a tie-up for small boats filled with people who wanted to have lunch at one of the cafes located just up the road. He sat, staring at the water lapping at the dock and at the high-walled shore. With the pain shooting down his legs, he wondered how he would be able to get back home safely. He had lost his wife five years previously, and his two sons were far away in different states. There was no one to call. Perhaps, if he waited long enough, he could make it back home safely. He was of no use to anyone, not even himself. And so, he sat and watched the water and the sky.
From about 100 yards off, he could see a rowboat, filled to over-capacity. There were about 10, 11, 12 people in it: men, women, and children holding on to the rocky boat. One man was using a set of oars, the only set visible, and he was having trouble moving towards the shore. Some of them were getting up and moving back and forth on the boat. Others were yelling at them to sit down. Children were crying.
And then it happened. The boat tipped sideways. The people tried to compensate. They over-compensated. The boat rocked the other way and flipped. The people all disappeared. It may have only been seconds, but it was also a moment out of eternity. One by one, heads appeared. Some were crying. Some were not moving; they were being held up by others. Each one was barely holding on to a part of the boat’s bottom, sliding off the slippery underbelly, and grasping with frantic claws for another grasp.
The old man sat frozen. His body would not allow him to do anything. He had no phone. There was no one near him to call out to. Suddenly, behind him, there was a screech of tires. He could hear a door open and then a rush of wind as someone ran past him.
A young man ran down to the water. He was not just a man. He was someone straight out of Greek mythology. He was huge and not just in stature. There was not one muscle on his body that wasn’t four times the size of a normal man. For one split second, the old man remembered the childhood story of Hercules he had read once, long, long ago.
The young man did not hesitate. He jumped into the water and swam to the boat. Arriving there, he grabbed the closest one, a woman who seemed to lose consciousness just as he grabbed her. He swam back to the dock using one hand to hold her. When he got there, he lifted her body up onto the dock with the ease of a power lifter. Then, he turned and swam out again, grabbing another and swimming back, lifting a man up onto the dock and then returning to the boat. Men, women, and children, one after another, were brought to the dock and lifted to safety. The old man began to count.
Eight. Nine. Then he noticed the young man. His swimming strokes began to slow. The look on the young man’s face began to show something. Pain? Exhaustion?
Ten. It was taking longer and longer for each trip.
Eleven. The young man was now having to pause several times; his swim strokes were becoming smaller and slower.
Twelve. The last appeared to be young, perhaps a teenager. The two of them looked at each other for a moment. Then, the boy slowly and gently moved to the young man’s back. There was hesitation, and then they started towards the dock, slowly, as if the young man was now Atlas, holding the weight of the world on his back. There was one open space left. The young boy moved to hold onto the wood planks, but did not have the energy to lift himself up. The young man, our hero, was spent; his life energy was gone. The old man sat there, praying to God. In a split second of time, so fast only an angel could see it happen, the young man used both his hands to lift the boy up by his waist, hoisting him up onto the dock and to safety.
As the boy went up, the young hero went under. He had used strength he did not possess to save the boy. He could not save himself.
Holding his breath, he prepared himself for the end. Then there was a tap on the side of his head. He opened his eyes and saw something. He didn’t know what it was, just something. He didn’t have the strength to reach up. It seemed to dip lower, and he reached forward, grabbing it. Slowly, it began to rise, not far, just far enough to bring the young man’s head above water. He began to breathe. He held on. When his vision cleared, he realized that the old man had somehow been able to get up and walk to the dock. The old man had gotten down on his knees and dipped his cane in the water. The old man had just enough strength to bring the young man’s head up a few inches so he could breathe.
By then, other cars had stopped and were rushing to help.
I could go on about what happened next, but I will let you finish the story yourself. The reason for this narration? To explain to you the following: You are important. No matter your age, no matter your abilities, you touch people’s lives and you affect people’s lives, sometimes with a smile, sometimes with a word, and sometimes with…well, you fill it out. If you feel lost, alone, or left behind, you need to know this. You are important to someone, to the world, and to God!
*A version of this story was told to me long ago. I do not remember who it was who told it. If I ever find out, I will give credit where credit is due.
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