The sea doesn’t warn you. It doesn’t care who you are, what rank you hold, or how well you swim. In 1945, Edgar Harrell - a young Marine aboard the USS Indianapolis - found himself tossed into an ocean of blood, oil, and sharks.
Five days he floated. No food. No water. Just faith. When I saw the image of that ship heading into the mouth of a great white - part nightmare, part truth - I thought of him.
I thought of two boys on surfboards who once saved my life. And I thought of how, in a world gripped by fear, someone must still call out: look at the sky, stay on your back, breathe - help is coming.
I had never heard of Edgar Harrell. His name, like so many from the past, drifted quietly beneath the surface of history - until one day, a video clip pulled him into my world.
In it, an elderly man calmly recounts a nightmare: five days adrift in shark-infested waters after the USS Indianapolis was torpedoed on the 30th of July, 1945.
His voice is steady, but the story is harrowing.
After delivering components for the atomic bombs, the ship was torpedoed by a Japanese submarine. Hundreds of his shipmates were killed ... not by the explosion, but by sharks.
Of the 1,195 crew aboard, about 300 went down with the ship.
The remaining 890 were left adrift, facing exposure, dehydration, saltwater poisoning, and relentless shark attacks ... with few lifeboats, no food, and no fresh water. The Navy only learned of the sinking four days later, when survivors were spotted by a patrol plane.
Only 316 men lived.
The sinking of the Indianapolis remains the greatest single loss of life at sea from a single ship in U.S. Navy history.
My late father was a sailor with the Royal Navy during the Second World War. He couldn’t swim. I always found that an odd choice - but he loved the sea. It never deterred him.
I, on the other hand, used to be a strong swimmer. Yet one day in 2001, I was caught in a rip off the coast of Queensland. I panicked. Believing I was going to drown, I very nearly did.
Two young lads on surfboards saved me. They were about 10 years old.
One paddled over and calmly instructed me:
“My mate is going to get you on his board. Until he does, lie on your back and look at the sky. Just look at the sky, stay on your back, and breathe. Do that and you’ll be OK.”
I did exactly what he said. His friend pulled me onto his board and paddled me back to shore. I wept with gratitude. But the boys just shrugged, and the one who had spoken to me said:
“It’s OK. I learned that at Nippers.”
(For those unfamiliar, “Nippers” is a junior programme attached to surf lifesaving clubs in Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa. Kids are taught surf awareness and rescue skills.)
When I watched that clip of Edgar Harrell, those two boys flashed into my mind - and so did the current hysteria, fear, and hopelessness that seem to grip the world today.
My “ordeal” lasted 15 minutes. Edgar Harrell’s lasted five days and nights. No food. No water. And mine didn’t involve sharks.
His only “boys on surfboards” was a deeply rooted faith in Almighty God.
Reflecting on those terrible days in the ocean, Edgar said:
“Clearly there were no atheists in the water that day. Gone was that damnable attitude of pride that deceives men into thinking there is no God.”
Edgar Harrell floated in the shark-infested Pacific Ocean for four-and-a-half days.
He floated in the blood- and oil-soaked waters of the Pacific with 80 others who had escaped the burning wreck. The air was 110 degrees Fahrenheit (43 Celsius).
By the third day, their number had dwindled to just 17.
Shark fins circled. The water was littered with the torsos of their friends. Each scream marked another man being pulled under, never to return whole.
Which brings me to the point of this article.
While governments across the globe stoke fear - issuing cries of “we're all going to die!” - someone like Trump stands out like the boy on the surfboard: calm, clear, offering direction. A reminder that when everyone else is flailing, hope can still speak.
Without a message of hope, we drown. Without faith that tomorrow will be better, we sink.
As President Trump rallies the people, binds them together, and offers a vision of renewal, defeatism whispers that there is no surfboard, no rescue, no shore in sight. Just treading water forever - with nothing to hold but a kapok lifejacket and a crate of rotten potatoes.
But then I remember Edgar Harrell, drifting in oil and blood, surrounded by death and sharks. He survived not by panic, but by faith. And I remember the voice of a child telling me to lie on my back, look at the sky, and breathe.
So, is help coming?
It depends on where you're looking.
The bureaucrats say no. The media says no. But I say yes - help comes when courage floats. When truth isn’t torpedoed. When someone refuses to drown in lies and despair.
Yes, help is coming - we just need to look in the right place.
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