Memories

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Rescue at Trevor Tal: the Boy Behind the Foot

From time to time we come across dramatic stories in the news: Boy Scout rescues drowning woman. The young boys get copious coverage in the press, and special awards.

There have been a few rescues at SMS, that don't make national headlines. I'm going to describe one of them, to commemorate 50 years since it happened. Far from being decorated, the rescuer got public benders. Now Abuites got benders, we took them like men without a fuss, and forgot about them. But what also got forgotten was the rescue. It's now 50 years and time to recognize the then-young man who deserved a pat on the back at least as much as swipes on the behind.

The year: 1972. Sunday, August 6. The occasion: a Legion of Mary praesidium picnic. We got our special breakfast, butter by the cup and puffy omelettes, and headed down Dilwara Road to Trevor Tal. The usual rules applied. Everyone was to remain by the boat ramp and the bungalow next to it. Absolutely no swimming. No wandering into the forest to the machan on the far side. In 1972 there weren't large wild animals, and no crocs, so there wasn't an obvious danger. But it's nice to have rules. It promotes discipline, that's why. And it gives little boys some bounds to violate harmlessly.

The morning was quite a bit of fun. One of the boys introduced us to what he called “dead line” fishing (which it wasn't; it was “line” fishing, no rod). Time after time, we felt the thrill of a tug on the line, full taut, a catch. I distinctly remember the boyish excitement in the voice of Neil “Gully” Coelho (1972), Vice-President: “I never knew dead line fishing could be so much fun.” [Sadly, Gully died just a month before this article was posted.]

At picnics, a grand lunch was driven in from school. After that, things started to drag. There were only so many things to do at the ramp. There were some nudges and winks, and a few of us randomly wandered up the steps into the forest, around to the machan. Having explored the view, we shed our shirts and stepped into the water.

I knew a whole lot about swimming. You kick off, hands stretched forward, enjoy a nice glide, then put your legs down, stand up, and wipe your hand down your hair and over your face, getting the water out of your eyes. It was a well-worn formula that worked in Shallow Bay.

At Trevor Tal it didn't. I got as far as putting my legs down, but the ground had gone AWOL. There was nothing to stand on. Ok, so it was a bit deeper than I thought, I'll hit bottom in a moment. No. Nothing.

It's a terrifying moment when that happens. Descending through a fluid, helplessly, has something in common with what we learned about hell, and perhaps that was a subconscious thought. The roar of water in my ears added a surreal and ominous dimension. I thought: I'm invisible below the surface, nobody expected me to be in trouble, nobody will be watching for me. I'd heard that when you're drowning, you bob up to the surface three times. I did surface once, twice, each time determined to yell for help, but in that fraction of a second, just managed a gulp of air in, no voice out. Then there was no more surfacing. I struggled for an eternity, but it didn't achieve anything. I was descending deeper, and ran out of energy to flail any more. If I could hit bottom, I could walk to the rock, but now I was out of air. I considered taking a gulp of water, although all the advice said you shouldn't. I considered breathing water in through my nose, hoping that through some miracle I'd be able to extract some oxygen out of it, like a fish. The realization settled in: this is it. I wondered exactly how the process of suffocation was going to proceed. I went pretty quiet, suspended between bottom and surface. It's hard to say how much time passed.

It was just after I'd resigned myself to the inevitable, that I became aware of some turbulence above. Maybe voices. My eyes probably weren't open under water. I reached my arms towards the sound. After a few misses, a hit. A human touch. Another. It wasn't an arm reaching out to me. It was a toe. A foot. It seemed like it was being offered to me, a lifeline, but it was moving, and it took a few tries. I got it, but it towed me towards the centre of the lake. That's not the way I needed to go. I let go. Then it occurred to me: maybe he has a better handle on bearings than I do. The foot approached again. I reached out, a couple more misses. Then I made contact and went along with the tow. Many slow seconds later my feet touched a rock face, but it was slippery. Moving around, I found enough texture for a foothold, started to climb, and dragged myself out of the lake. I lay on the rock for a couple of minutes, coughing up water. Appreciating air. And pondering what had just not happened.

I became aware of a few more people than there'd been when I went in. Notably Conrad Mendonca (1976), the boy behind the foot. Br O'Donovan, Spiritual Director, walked in from the forest. And Avinash D'Mello (1972), President. With his perpetual optimism and wonderment, Avinash was curious: it's just 5 metres in; how deep could this spot possibly be? He picked up a stick about a metre long, jumped in and submerged, standing vertical, holding the stick up. It disappeared below the water, but he hadn't reached bottom. Conclusion: less than 5 m from shore, the water was more than 3 m deep. (Considering I'd just reached up for Conrad's foot … yeah.)

Aside from steep slopes and irregular bathymetry that varies with rainfall — 1972 was particularly wet — Trevor Tal hides secret caves under water. In 1978, SMS ex-bearer Natu was the caretaker, and showed me a leopard they'd captured in the jungle. Now there are crocs. This is a treacherous place. You'd better take the rules seriously, even if you're an invincible, immortal teen. (I know a little about invincible, immortal, incorrigible teens — I climbed Golden Horn solo a few years later, another daft macho adventure that I was lucky to walk away from.)

The rest of the day was routine. That was always the case at SMS, wasn't it? We took everything in our stride. High picnic tea. Hike back to school. “There was a girl, thin, tall and dark. Her hair was the delicate colour of gin-ger.” Either that night or the next, the Principal stopped dinner, called a couple of boys out, presumably the leaders of the nudge-wink posse, and administered benders. Then he called Conrad for the same treatment. Why Conrad? Perhaps the Principal knew something I didn't.

In hindsight, I'm not so sure. Maybe Conrad did break the rules, making his way to the machan in the second batch. Maybe he did something else. But he also saved a life, and there were no plaudits for that.

I don't know if I thanked Conrad either. We didn't hang out together. The only thing I knew about him was that my first year, in F Division, the monstrous bundle of energy almost single-handedly destroyed my team in a football match, 26-0. I was full-back or goalie, and the guy came splashing his way from the centre line, through a soaking pitch, eyes fixed on the ball, over and over and over again, and scored probably 22 of those goals unassisted.

Recognition and gratitude to the Boy Behind the Foot are overdue.

Conrad: The past 50 years of my life have been a blast. Thank you! Treading water, offering your legs for grabs, is not an accepted rescue method; you use a rope, a stick, a float, but you don't risk a second life. Things could have ended differently — I could have pulled you under. Looking back, I can imagine what the conversations were above water: “Hey, there's a guy drowning.” “What should we do?” “Call Dono.” “No, yaar, we'll get into trouble.” You saw the urgency, and acted, boldly. You risked your life to save mine. Does a higher form of human spirit exist?

Readers: Please stand with me and salute this guy. And salute all those who put their own lives on the line to save others. Doctors and nurses, soldiers, firefighters, cops, …

Epilogue: That wasn't the last time Conrad and I linked up. The following year, we ran together on the SMS 4×100 C team, and finished 2nd in the Open Relay, thanks to an A team mishap. And it gets better …

A few years ago, visiting my cousin over Christmas, I met a lady who turned out to be Conrad's sister visiting her cousin. Apparently Lorraine, the lovely girl my cousin had married, was Conrad's cousin. And they lived happily ever after.