Fortunately for me, one of those Peace Corps volunteers could apparently tell I was in trouble, even though I hadn't spoken. I hated the thought of what it would do to my family.

I alternated treading water and floating on my back, contemplating death and thinking that I didn't want to die like my poor neighbor friend. I faced the terrifying reality that I was probably going to die because there was no way I could muster the energy to try swimming again. There were some young Peace Corps Volunteers swimming nearby, but I didn't even have the energy to call to them for help. I got carried a long way out, and couldn't get back in because of the force of the undertow. I went swimming off the beach at the American Ambassador's residence during a Fourth of July community picnic, and got caught in the undertow. In July after I turned eleven I had my own near-drowning experience. It was shocking and horrifying, the suddenness and manner of his death. A few months after we moved to The Gambia, our next door neighbor's son, a big, strapping, friendly lad of fourteen, drowned in the ocean. I loved the ocean - the moods, the sounds, the smells but I learned to fear it too. When my parents wouldn't take us, my older brother and I would cycle to the beach off of the Sunwing Hotel to hunt in tide pools and estuaries at low tide. It was such a new experience that we glutted ourselves with beach-going several times a week. My family moved to The Gambia the summer after I turned nine, and there for the first time I met the mystery and power of the sea. I beg your indulgence as I set up this review a little, so you can understand the frame of mind I came to The Eyes of the Amaryllis with.

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