In Too Deep (13 page)

The first time I died was when I drowned at Piha on New Year’s Day.

Of course, going into the sea in the first place had been a stupid idea. Me and Scott and Mitch had been up all night, partying hard, drinking heaps, smoking pot and still stoned at eight o’clock in the morning. I don’t know who decided we’d go surfing – it wasn’t me, that’s for sure.

So we get to the beach and the waves are as big as ships, and the two idiots chicken out but I wasn’t going to let a little bit of water get to me. Except it wasn’t a little bit of water, it was a mountain of water. I stood in the shallows with my surfboard, watching the waves boom and roar as they folded over, releasing energy that carried the few brave surfers high on the foaming crests.

Josh was out there. I peered through the sea spray and felt my muscles tense as if readying for a fight. It was his fault that Gina had left. She’d gone back to town and all I had for company was the two morons I’d left standing on the beach.

I hit the water, feeling the strength of the waves thrusting me back towards the shore but I battled on, the cold water sobering me up instantly as I ducked under a breaking wave. For a second I wondered what the hell I was doing out there, and then I saw Josh, riding past, conquering a wave in a way that I never could.

This guy had messed with my girl; there was no way I was going to let him show me up like that. I paddled on.

I was exhausted by the time I reached the back line and one of the surfers called out, “You sure you should be out here, mate?”

I had no strength to call out an obscenity so I let it lie, watching as Josh paddled out towards us. I saw him glance my way. It seemed that he was about to shout out to me, but he appeared to decide against it and looked out to sea instead, readying himself for his next ride.

It happened when I was watching him and not the sea – fatal mistake, literally. The wave took me by surprise, thrust me under, rolling me over and over, not knowing which way was up or down, and I knew I was in trouble, knew that I was going to drown.

I think I was more dead than alive by the time Josh got to me. I don’t remember much – just his hand reaching out for mine before I was pushed under water again. His fingers wrapped around mine, and then it was all blackness.

When I saw light again, I was floating above my body, which was freaky but I didn’t feel scared, just curious. I looked down and saw myself, the physical me, out of the sea and lying on the sand below surrounded by people. I watched as a lifeguard squeezed a plastic bag over my nose and mouth while another pressed on my chest. I couldn’t feel a thing and it felt quite nice floating up there, not scary at all, which you’d think it would be if you saw yourself lying on the sand, looking very dead. Sounds were muted as if coming through a pane of glass. I saw Josh sitting on the sand, looking like his best mate had died. And I certainly wasn’t his mate, in fact I must have been his most feared adversary.

That made me feel bad, because I knew that he had rescued me, even though it looked like he could have saved himself the trouble as I was dead anyway. Still I floated there, cocooned in warm bright light while I watched as they worked on me, trying to bring me back. Was I going to float here forever? Is this what happens when you die? Right then I decided that I didn’t want to be dead and something clicked over in my head, if I had a head, and I fell.

When I landed, all I felt was pain – worst of all in my chest, which was being compressed by the guy beside me. I had no voice and I couldn’t tell him to stop. Couldn’t he see I was alive? Then the seawater in my stomach came up and I caught the guy giving me CPR by surprise, but at least he stopped whacking my chest.

After that it was a helicopter to the hospital, a couple of days in bed and people telling me I was lucky to be alive. But I couldn’t forget the image of me floating above my body and I started wondering – is there life after death? I knew that my physical body had died that day on the beach, yet I, the me part, was not in it, and I wanted to know what would have happened if I hadn’t fallen back into myself. I became obsessed with finding answers and I decided I needed to investigate my options.

I started with my local church and, against my nature, I wandered in one Friday evening when it was holding a youth group meeting. They must have thought I was there to cause trouble, which I was tempted to do when I looked at their smug faces,

But then a man in his mid-twenties came towards me. “Hi, I’m Mark,” he said as he held out his hand for me to shake. “I’m the youth pastor here. Is this your first time?”

I nodded as I took his hand and told him my name.

“Welcome, Bevan, let me introduce you to the rest of the youth group.”

It was Mark who invited me to Parachute Music Festival a week later. Big mistake. Not that the festival was dumb or anything, it was just one long rave, in fact. No, the mistake was driving home, in the dark, at the same time that a drunk driver crossed the centre line and hit the van we were in.

That’s when I died the second time.