I have always been a strong swimmer. My parents had me start lessons before I could even walk. I continued to learn at the YMCA and in school, so that by the time I reached my teens, I had already received life-saving qualifications through the Boy Scouts and become a member of my school's competitive swim team. I specialized in backstroke and freestyle, which we called the "Australian crawl" stroke back then. I may not have been the fastest in my age group, but I was frequently among the ribbon winners at swim meets. I could cover a full mile in under 30 minutes. I could dive, too, both platform and springboard, attempting flips that scared the daylights out of my mother during summer outings to the lake. I loved the water, and I could never understand why anyone might be afraid of it. But that changed in 1975, the year I learned respect for the sea.

At that time, I was teaching Mathematics for the Peace Corps in Kuantan, Malaysia. Under my charge was a group of ten students, all boys aged 13-14, know as "Homeroom J." We had planned a bus excursion up the East Coast to picnic at the beach and swim in the warm waters of the South China Sea. It reminded me a lot of the bus trips I used to take with the swim team back in high school, singing songs and telling jokes as we rolled along. Of course, there were cultural differences. The boys had a penchant for curry and fish, and for sandwiches made with bread, rice and chili sauce, not the hamburgers and hotdogs I had grown up with. They wore sarongs over their swim trunks, not blue jeans. But the gaiety of the outing was much the same. And the tropical weather was just perfect, as if made to order for a coastal outing.

When we reached our destination, the driver and his assistant started preparing our lunch, while I took Homeroom J down to the beach. The waves were not too high and there was a natural rock jetty that created a very calm area for wading and swimming. I organized the boys in pairs, each one with a buddy to keep close to, and instructed them to stay within the jetty area. Most of them could swim well, and I knew I could handle any eventuality, but there was no sense taking any chances. I swam a bit with the boys, then took a break to check on lunch, leaving two of the better swimmers in charge for the few minutes I would be away.

Just as I reached the bus, I could hear one of the boys calling me. "Encik Tom! Encik Tom!" He was waving and pointing out to the sea. I hurried back and saw that

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