Maria Coffey on The Moment of Death and Rebirth
Read an excerpt of Maria Coffey's memoir, "Instead: Navigating the Adventures of a Childfree Life"
I’m so delighted to share an excerpt from
’s gorgeous memoir Instead: Navigating the Adventures of a Childfree Life which explores Maria’s difficult decision not to have children, so that she could follow her dreams of an adventurous life.In 1973, when Maria was twenty-one and before she’d met her now husband Dag, Maria came close to drowning in Morocco attempting to help another swimmer. In the excerpt below, Maria is returning to the beach for the first time at age sixty-six.
Maria’s writing is so lovely: crisp and fresh and so precise; bursting with vibrant urgency—as well as wisdom and gratitude. She’s published thirteen books, which have won numerous awards. Their subjects range from her travels with Dag, to the emotional impacts of extreme adventure (her previous partner disappeared on Everest when she was thirty, another life changing event), and four of them are books for children. When not traveling, Maria and Dag split their time between British Columbia and Catalonia.
I trust you will enjoy this wondrous snippet of her life as much as I do!
December 2018
The plane overshot the coast, then turned back for the approach to landing. As it banked steeply, I saw the sun begin to slide behind the horizon, where the Atlantic meets the sky.
I was flying into Morocco from Indonesia, where I’d been leading a trip for our adventure travel company. Dag had driven down from Catalonia; he had been in the country for a couple of weeks and was at the airport to meet me. We headed south from Agadir for over two hours on a highway winding through bare, rolling hills. Night had fallen by the time we stopped in Tiznit to buy fruit, tea, and milk. The vendor sat by a pile of oranges. He wore a long, striped djellaba, the hood pulled over his head against the evening chill. He was watching a video on his smartphone. A donkey tethered to a post nearby flicked its tail.
Forty kilometres on, we took a narrow road through the edge of a small town, past shuttered shops and dark houses.
“Does this look familiar?” asked Dag.
I shook my head.
“It was just a one-street village then. There was nothing beyond except dirt paths.”
Some months before, Dag had told me about a place in Morocco that was a mecca for paragliding, a sport he loved. He suggested he should go there while I was in Indonesia. Then I’d join him, and we’d explore the country together. I’d always talked about returning to Morocco to see the places I’d missed because of my long-ago accident. So this plan fitted together nicely.
“The town’s called Mirleft,” he had said, and I’d stared at him in astonishment.
“That’s where I drowned.”
#
He had rented a small apartment on a beach. “I don’t think it’s the same beach,” he said on the way. “There’s a bigger one with a notorious rip current half an hour’s walk along the cliffs. We can go there tomorrow.”
We zigzagged down, the road becoming a gravel path ending at a small parking area. Stepping out of the car, I heard the pounding waves, inhaled sharp, salty air. A man darted from the darkness, took our bags, let us into the apartment. Framed by the bedroom window, the moon lit the breaking surf. My journey had seemed endless, through many time zones. I was blurred with tiredness. I longed to lie flat, to hold Dag, to sleep. I closed the shutter on the ocean. Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow.
#
I woke to a dull roar, the repetitive thump and hiss of waves hitting the beach. Dag brought me a cup of tea. He opened the shutters, and bright sunlight flooded the room. I sat up, blinking. Looked out. The ocean shimmered. Surf foamed over yellow sand.
Our apartment was in one of a few simple stone buildings straggling along the head of the beach where it met the bluff. We walked to a small cafe for breakfast. Two steps up from the sand led to a patio. Earth-hued cushions were scattered over stone benches, low plastic tables set before them. It was grimy yet cheerful. The owner emerged from the dark interior, greeting Dag like an old friend.
“Mohammed, this is my wife, Maria,” said Dag.
Skinny and tall, with stained teeth and a long blue scarf wrapped around his head, Mohammed bowed to me, folding his palms together at his chest.
“I have been waiting for you. Your husband has been with me here a lot. He has missed you.”
Mohammed served us eggs cooked in a brass pan with olives, tomatoes, onions, and lots of oil. We scooped up the mixture with pieces of flatbread. Then he brought us little glasses of sweet mint tea. When I finished mine, I excused myself. I wanted to walk on the beach alone. I headed to the jumble of black rocks marking its northern end. Scrambling onto the highest rock, I looked around. Dag was right. I had always described a larger beach, with higher bluffs. But this was the right shape, like a horseshoe. I jumped down and followed the tide line, walking barefoot on damp, hard sand to the far bluff, sheer like a cliff.
Just before I reached it, I stopped and stood very still.
The memory was visceral. Sprawled out on my stomach, one cheek pressed against the sand, opening my eyes, seeing the arm lying next to my face, realizing with a shock it was mine. That I was alive. A babble of voices, then hands lifting me, carrying me, the pain of that, the agony of every breath.
It was here. Right at this spot. I was sure, I could sense it with every cell in my body. I sat down. Hugged my knees to my chest. Stared at the waves. A dog trotted up, wagging his tail. Yellow-furred, long-legged, a jaunty red scarf around his neck. He curled up next to me. We stayed that way for some time.
I looked along the beach to the rocks. Squinted. There I was, with my friends Claire, Eileen, and Margaret. Twenty-one, slender as a reed, hair down my back, a long patchwork skirt and T-shirt over my bikini. We had just walked from the village. I threw my bag and clothes on the sand and ran into the shallows to play with some other young travellers. Carefree and laughing, jumping in the foam of the broken waves as they rolled to shore. After each jump, landing back on my feet, never out of my depth. Then the shout, someone was beyond the break, in trouble. People started forming a chain to reach him. I was a weak swimmer. I should have backed away. Instead, I made a split-second decision and reached out my hands. Suddenly, I was in the chain, moving out, standing on my tiptoes in chest-deep water. The people on either side of me held me fast when a wave rolled in and lifted me off my feet. But the next wave was much larger. As it curled up above us, I stared at its belly, smooth like blue glass, at its foaming, teetering head. Then the shocking crash, the tumbling over and over like a rag in a washing machine, no idea of up or down.
Surfacing: at first the relief of air, then the realization I couldn’t touch the bottom. I was being pulled away from the beach where my friends stood staring at me in bewilderment. Only later did I learn about the notorious rip current, too strong and fast for anyone to swim against. That I could have swum parallel to the shore to try to escape it, as the man we had been attempting to rescue had already successfully done. That eventually the rip would peter out in much deeper water, or curl back toward the beach, so I should relax and let it take me. Had I known this, I would have kept my head above water and waited for the current to release me, knowing I’d end up somewhere I hadn’t expected to be but that I’d be okay. Instead, I panicked. As another wave churned over me, I coughed violently, sucking in water. I saw it rolling toward the shore, rearing up as it reached the surf break. I was beyond that now, and my friends had become tiny figures.
#
The mind protects us from the unbearable. For most people, it is impossible to imagine the moment of death, the prospect of not existing. But I know what it’s like to die, at least by drowning. Waves slapping against my face, water filling my mouth, my nose. The choking, the sense of being suffocated. The desperate struggle, limbs flailing, hands clawing uselessly at the ocean. The mind slowing into lucid waves of sorrow, regret, and anguish. I imagined my body smashed against the rocks at one end of the beach, or drifting down into depths, rolling around on the ocean floor. I thought about my parents, how they would find out, their terrible sorrow. I remembered the spat I’d had with Claire that morning. I would never be able to apologize to her. I’d miss the rest of university, miss meeting my future husband, miss travelling the world. The beach was far away now. I kept fighting, choking, clawing. The loneliness, the desolation was profound. And soon so was the darkness.
A young German man had walked from the village a little while after us. From the top of the bluff, he saw people running around by the rocks. Wanting solitude, he took another path, down to the far end of the beach. As he reached the sand, he spotted a body washing about in the surf. He ran in, grabbed my hair, carried my limp body to this spot. My lips were blue. I wasn’t breathing.
#
I stood up and slowly walked back across sand, the yellow dog trotting along beside me. At the cafe, it flopped down at my feet.
“This is the beach, isn’t it?” said Dag. He was looking at me with concern.
I nodded.
“I found the spot where I was resuscitated.”
Mohammed set down another cup of mint tea. “Your husband told me of your accident, madam. I am sorry. The sea is very dangerous here. It has taken many people. You are lucky. Allah was with you. You were reborn.”
I breathed in deeply. Ocean air moving easily through my lungs.
Mohammed was right. I had been returned to life – but differently. The invincibility of youth had been stripped away. Underneath it was a raw understanding of the fragility of existence. It was a knowledge that would impel me to chase my dreams and inform the biggest choices I was to make in the years ahead. '
Thank you for being here, dear Beyonders! ❤️ Your comments (and hearts) mean so much to me. I read each and every one. Looking forward to hearing your thoughts on Maria’s beautiful essay!
The excerpt from Maria's memoir literally took my breath away. I realized I had stopped breathing when I got to the end. Her ability to capture the small details--the dog's scarf, the sound of the waves, the feel of the sand under her cheek--is part of what makes her writing so powerful. Thank you for this introduction to her writing.
'Clawing at the ocean' is so vivid and desperate. A friend of mine drowned, perhaps deliberately, at night on a beach on Cape Cod (his clothing was found along the shore). He wrote a very haunting ballad about how 'the Goddess of the Universe is generous.' His music was anguished and rolled over the listener in waves. Not long after his death, the mournful melody was removed from his social media site permanently. It was like he drowned twice, once in the ocean, and again in silence. Maria's beautiful essay reanimated this memory for me. Thank you for sharing her powerful piece.