Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday 5 October 2025 at 19:34
The Day I Almost closed my Eyes
I must have been twelve years old, I’m sure I was. It was that age when everything begins to shift—when the world starts to look a little brighter, and far more confusing. My friends had just packed up their two-week holiday on the island, leaving me with an odd sense of emptiness. For the first time, I realized I wasn’t just missing the boys; I was missing the girls too—particularly a girl whose name I can’t recall. There was no real romance, of course; who’s ever heard of a twelve-year-old romantic? She was only a pal. Just like the boys.
That Saturday, with the holiday cabin feeling unusually quiet, I wandered through the fields and down to Ascog beach. Nature has always drawn me when I’m confused or lonely. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just a way to occupy the strange loneliness I couldn’t quite name. The beach was rocky and wild, the waves crashing in their endless rhythm. I ventured out, picking my way across the jagged rocks with the overconfidence only a boy on the cusp of adolescence can have.
Then I slipped.
The fall was sudden and brutal. The sharp edge of a rock grazed my arm as the waves seized me, pulling me into their chaotic embrace. For a terrifying moment, I couldn’t tell which way was up. My arms flailed, desperate to find purchase, until finally, I managed to grab the top of a rock and pull myself free.
I sat there on the sharp, wet stone, shivering and catching my breath. My heart pounded like a bodhrán in my chest. All the “what ifs" began to flood my mind. What if I hadn’t caught that rock? What if the waves had dragged me further out? What if I had drowned right there, on that ordinary Saturday, with no one around to see or save me?
For the first time, I felt the weight of my own fragility, the startling realization that life could be taken from me as easily as a wave dragging a pebble back to sea. I had always assumed I was invincible; children often do. But sitting there, dripping wet and utterly shaken, I began to wonder about things far bigger than myself.
Selma Lagerlöf, I think it was, who wrote something about imploring God to let her reach her full potential before her life was gleaned from this earth.
And when I reflect on that day, Lagerlöf’s words come back to me.
I began to wrestle with questions far beyond my years. How would God judge a life so young? I had many sins to confess.
What happens to a child who closes their eyes on life before they've had the chance to really open them? Would there be understanding, or only silence?
That day marked the first time I truly felt the weight of my own mortality—not as a distant, abstract concept, but as something immediate and deeply personal. It didn’t stop me from climbing rocks again. Life went on, as it does. But the memory of that day stayed with me, a quiet reminder of how thin the line is between being and not being, and how quickly everything can change.
Even now, decades later, I visit that boy sitting on the rocks, trembling and thoughtful, his childhood beginning to slip away with the tide. I wonder if, in those moments of quiet panic and reflection, I began to grow up just a little. Without realizing it, I was starting to understand the preciousness of life—not in a grand or dramatic way, but in the simple, shivering recognition that it is fragile and fleeting.
And that’s enough. After all, we are never truly ready; there are always ifs.
The Day I Almost closed my Eyes
The Day I Almost closed my Eyes
I must have been twelve years old, I’m sure I was. It was that age when everything begins to shift—when the world starts to look a little brighter, and far more confusing. My friends had just packed up their two-week holiday on the island, leaving me with an odd sense of emptiness. For the first time, I realized I wasn’t just missing the boys; I was missing the girls too—particularly a girl whose name I can’t recall. There was no real romance, of course; who’s ever heard of a twelve-year-old romantic? She was only a pal. Just like the boys.
That Saturday, with the holiday cabin feeling unusually quiet, I wandered through the fields and down to Ascog beach. Nature has always drawn me when I’m confused or lonely. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just a way to occupy the strange loneliness I couldn’t quite name. The beach was rocky and wild, the waves crashing in their endless rhythm. I ventured out, picking my way across the jagged rocks with the overconfidence only a boy on the cusp of adolescence can have.
Then I slipped.
The fall was sudden and brutal. The sharp edge of a rock grazed my arm as the waves seized me, pulling me into their chaotic embrace. For a terrifying moment, I couldn’t tell which way was up. My arms flailed, desperate to find purchase, until finally, I managed to grab the top of a rock and pull myself free.
I sat there on the sharp, wet stone, shivering and catching my breath. My heart pounded like a bodhrán in my chest. All the “what ifs" began to flood my mind. What if I hadn’t caught that rock? What if the waves had dragged me further out? What if I had drowned right there, on that ordinary Saturday, with no one around to see or save me?
For the first time, I felt the weight of my own fragility, the startling realization that life could be taken from me as easily as a wave dragging a pebble back to sea. I had always assumed I was invincible; children often do. But sitting there, dripping wet and utterly shaken, I began to wonder about things far bigger than myself.
Selma Lagerlöf, I think it was, who wrote something about imploring God to let her reach her full potential before her life was gleaned from this earth.
And when I reflect on that day, Lagerlöf’s words come back to me.
I began to wrestle with questions far beyond my years. How would God judge a life so young? I had many sins to confess.
What happens to a child who closes their eyes on life before they've had the chance to really open them? Would there be understanding, or only silence?
That day marked the first time I truly felt the weight of my own mortality—not as a distant, abstract concept, but as something immediate and deeply personal. It didn’t stop me from climbing rocks again. Life went on, as it does. But the memory of that day stayed with me, a quiet reminder of how thin the line is between being and not being, and how quickly everything can change.
Even now, decades later, I visit that boy sitting on the rocks, trembling and thoughtful, his childhood beginning to slip away with the tide. I wonder if, in those moments of quiet panic and reflection, I began to grow up just a little. Without realizing it, I was starting to understand the preciousness of life—not in a grand or dramatic way, but in the simple, shivering recognition that it is fragile and fleeting.
And that’s enough. After all, we are never truly ready; there are always ifs.
Image by Copilot