Tragic Wake Up Call

A terrible thing happened on the way back to camp....I saw a man die.

The morning of Sunday October 21 is, for most, the start of any other day. But for a few what started as any other day quickly ended in tragedy. 

 

While most were still sleeping or beginning to stir awake, a few hundred professional, amateur, and novice triathletes made their way to Newport Beach for the 2012 sprint triathlon. Weeks of training and preparation, eagle eyed surveillance on carb and protein intake, recovery runs, recovery rides, recovery swims all about to culminate on this day. For some this is quite literally a walk in the park. For others, perhaps their first attempt at the holy trinity of athleticism. A sprint tri is 1/2 mile swim followed by a 5k run and 12 mile bike ride.

I remember the feeling before starting such an event. I have done 5k runs, a half marathon, and several lengths of bike rides, the longest stretching to 105 miles. The adrenaline that pumps before the start is awesome. The sound of hundreds of people jogging, running, cycling is ever exhilarating. The feeling in the air is electric and nothing compares to it. I am certain this was the feeling on the shore of Newport Dunes Lagoon as hundreds gathered for a 1/2 mile swim around the floating TYR buoys.

Across the bay was a slumbering group of fathers and sons, my son and I among them, slowly wakening to the final morning of their memorable campout. Some, like me, got an early jump on breaking down camp and trekking supplies and gear back to our trucks and family vans.

It was on the walk back to camp from the truck that I happened to see one of the lifeguards in the water helping a swimmer. I watched him lift the swimmer up on to his paddleboard then the listless body fell right off and back in to the water. Another dad and I ran to the shore line to offer assistance. I called 911 as the other dad jumped into help the lifeguard. Another lifeguard quickly paddled from across the lagoon, the four of us drug the man's heavy body to shore. Foam and water pouring out of his mouth and nose. First aid supplies quickly arrived with another life guard and they proceeded to suction out the man's air way while simultaneously administering CPR chest compressions.

No pulse. A systole.

Paramedics arrived and continued to work on resuscitation. They intubated him, stuck an IV in his leg, wrapped a compression device around his chest. Among the medical and emergency terms called out the words A SYSTOLE kept ringing. I did not know what that meant but I knew it was not good.  I would later come to find out A Systole means "Flatline." 

Here lied a large man, built much like myself, wet suit cut off, half naked on rain soaked sand...dead. 

As I stood aside, watching the first responders fight the reaper, I prayed. I prayed for their efforts, for his family, for the feelings of doubt falling upon the lifeguards. I thought. I thought about the efforts that had brought this man to this event. I identified with this man. Overweight, undoubtedly trained for months and weeks for this day. This one day that he would cross the finish line collect his medal and take a picture to commemorate his commitment to health and activity.

Of course I know nothing about this man. I have no idea what brought him here. It's all projection. But I do know we both like to eat. And there in lies the tragedy.

No coroner comment on the official cause of death. Drowning to be sure but what caused it? Heart attack? Cramp? Who knows. It's all in my projection now.

We all lifted the man up to the sidewalk and on to the gurney. As they rolled him away, A SYSTOLE.

I knew as I walked away that he was gone. It was and is a haunting thought. A haunting vision. His poor family, his poor kids, his heartbroken friends. Dreams and plans washed away in 50 yards across a lagoon.

Perhaps if his health was better he could have made it. But then I have seen men like that finish marathons. We are called Clydesdales.

Selfishly, I think I was supposed to witness this. This could be me. This could be someone I love. This could be me if I don't change. I have the strength and ability to accomplish great things with my body. I can ride for miles, run miles...albeit slowly. I can eat less, lift more. But I have not. This is a tragic wake up call.

A terrible thing happened on the way back to camp...I saw a man die.

Roger Stewart, 51 from Brea California, may you Rest In Peace.