It was a beautiful summer day on Fire Island. A light southerly breeze was blowing, typical for that time of year. Residents of the bayfront homes enjoyed the day on their front decks overlooking the bay. One or two of them had their little boats tied to the bulkhead. Every now and then a sailboat, motorboat, or passenger ferry would pass by, about a thousand yards away, in the main channel.

A small sailboat came into view. There seemed to be two people on board, moving around, seeming to exert a great deal of effort without very obvious results. People ashore commented that one of two things was probably going on: either there was some sort of problem with the ship, or the sailors were inexperienced in running sailboats.

In an instant, one of the two people fell overboard. There was a lot of movement in the water. The sailboat continued, the remaining occupant of her running back and forth in the boat. There were no other ships in the vicinity.

On the shore, a homeowner and his son looked at each other and, with one voice, said “Let’s go!” They ran to the son’s small motor boat in the bulkhead and rushed to the scene. The victim, who was not wearing a life jacket, was thrashing wildly in a state of panic. She was extremely heavy. Father and son realized that there was no way to get her on board the ship; the only recourse was to tow her ashore. The father placed his hands on the rail and held them there tightly as the son steered the boat slowly toward shore. They both did their best to calm her down, assuring her that she was safe now and that she would soon be on the ground.

The tide was running out, so the point of arrival of the ship back to shore would not be the same as the point of departure. The boat returned to the bulkhead, where father and son told the woman, “Put your feet down, you can get up!” — which it was, for the water was only about three feet deep there.

She was safe now, but the problem remained: how to lift her up and over the bulkhead? The father heard a sound that he recognized: the sound of a Cushman scooter, which meant “Police.” Perfect! The father ran up to the young policeman, quickly explained the facts, and said, “What we have to do is set up a ladder to get her up and over the bulkhead.” The policeman ran to the bulkhead, assessed the situation very quickly, and had the commendable presence of mind to ask if everyone was okay; he questioned not only the victim, but also his father and son. He rushed to the small local food market not far away and grabbed a dolly, which was promptly returned to the scene. The policeman placed the wheelbarrow in the water. It served very well as a ladder. Up and over came the victim, still distracted, but safe. She was too upset to say “thank you” to anyone; but the father took note of the policeman’s shield number and later sent a note of praise to the Chief of Police.

The father and son vividly remember that day, even though it happened decades ago. I was there. I know them both well.