You never forget your first brush with death. I was 8 years old, living in the Dominican Republic. My father had come home for a few weeks to spend time with us. He always did this during his time on the road wrestling, so it was like a big deal to have him home. He had just come back from deep sea fishing. He caught a mahi mahi and he was preparing to grill it for our lunch. We were at the beach, and the waves were MASSIVE! I loved the waves, and wanted to go swimming but he warned me not to. I didn’t listen. When his back was turned, I jumped in. Immediately I was hit by a big wave, and the undertoe started ripping me out to sea! I was being dragged along the bottom of the ocean when, by the grace of the Lord, my foot got stuck on a piece of driftwood or something. I was able to push myself up and out of the current and swim to the top, gasping for air when I got there. I screamed for my dad, who was already flying towards me. I was pulled about a quarter mile in an instant! I could have, and should have, drowned that day. But I got lucky. Not many do. (220)
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