Water has always been more than a simple element in my life. Like mirrors, it carries a deep and often unsettling significance, each encounter shaping the person I would become. Four times, I stood at the edge of oblivion, nearly swept away by its cold embrace, and each memory is etched permanently in my mind.

I was just five, my hands sticky with salt and sand, wandering the jagged rocks of Padre Island. I remember the sun beating down and the thrill of collecting seashells for my grandmother. Unbeknownst to me, hammerhead sharks lurked just beyond the boulders, but it wasn’t them I had to fear. In an instant, a powerful undertow dragged me beneath the water. I flailed, lungs burning, desperate for air. My tiny body refused to give in, but the surface seemed impossibly far away. In that moment of panic, my stepdad appeared as if conjured by my silent pleas, pulling me out of danger. I gasped at the air, the deepest breath I’d ever taken, only to realize all my precious shells had vanished beneath the waves.

At fourteen, the ocean called to me again, this time with hidden menace. The waves, so inviting from shore, betrayed me when a rip current surged from nowhere. It yanked me under, spinning me in its dizzying grip. I fought, legs kicking desperately, searching for solid ground or a break in the relentless water. Fear clawed at my chest as my strength waned. Just when it seemed hopeless, my friend’s hand seized my arm and hauled me to safety. The taste of air was once again a miracle.

Sixteen brought new risks as I wandered the riverbanks of a Native American Reservation in southern California. The water was peaceful, gentle even, until I misjudged a ledge and went tumbling over a small waterfall. The current pinned me down, pressing relentlessly, refusing to let me surface. Alone and gasping, I prayed with every fiber of my being. Seconds stretched into eternity. As my strength faded, a strange weightlessness washed over me—the river’s force seemed to vanish. With a final burst of hope, I broke through and sucked in the life-giving air, grateful and bewildered.

The fourth time was different. It was late at night, pain gnawed at my midsection, and I sought relief in a bath. As the water filled the tub, the world spun and stars crowded my vision. I blacked out, only waking in the nearly full tub, the water perilously close to spilling over. Dazed, I climbed out and drained the bath. But the night wasn’t finished with me—I collapsed in the hallway and woke again on the floor, shaken and alone.

That year, life brimmed with unsettling omens. Deaths in the family cast a shadow over the house, and strange occurrences crept into daily life. A picture inexplicably flew from the wall, shattering in the same bathroom where water nearly claimed me. Then came the tale of the ghost on the ceiling and two mysterious girls, further blurring the line between coincidence and warning.

Each encounter with water left its mark, making me keenly aware of how thin the line between life and loss can be. With every escape, the world seemed both more fragile and more miraculous—a reminder of just how much I have to cherish each breath, no matter how it finds me.