Every year, as summer approached, my friend Karin and I would frantically count down the days until the colony. We were inseparable, but also similar - both curious, full of energy and ready for adventures like nowhere else.
2010 was a particularly hot year. The sun was scorching early in the day, but the kids weren't complaining. We couldn't wait to throw our backpacks on the beds in the rooms with wooden bunk beds, swap our slippers for flip-flops and run to the coast with our peers, classmates and fellow citizens. The sea had a magical power then - it washed away all our worries and made us feel like we could do anything.
We had a set schedule for each day: first exercise and breakfast, then swimming, creative workshops, lunch, rest and outdoor games. But it was the hours spent on the beach that had the most charm - that's when we were at our most authentic. We jumped the waves, searched for crabs, splashed in the sand and competed to see who could swim to the buoy the fastest.
That day the sea was calm, almost unreal quiet. Karin and I kept a little more to ourselves, as if subconsciously expecting something to happen. We walked along the shore to the edge of the enclosure, where the water was already moving from shallow to deeper.
Suddenly, we heard a low scream. It was indistinct at first, but clear enough to make us freeze. We looked out to sea and saw him. A small boy, almost a toddler, was waving his arms and barely keeping his head above water. Nobody noticed him - neither the teachers nor the other children. My heart started to race.
"Karin! Look!", I shouted and we were in the water.
We swam instinctively, without thinking, as if something was guiding us. The little boy in the water was already turning in circles, his arms were tired. Karin held him under his armpits and I supported his back and head. There was no room for panic in that moment, only for composure and determination. Slowly but surely we brought him to the shallows.
There he groaned. Not loudly, but fragile and grateful. When the teacher hugged him and checked if he was OK, he just nodded silently. He said that he had gone into deeper water on his own because he wanted to catch the plastic boat when it moved away from the shore, but he had not thought about the (dangerous) consequences of doing so.
He could not swim well.
From that day on, our view of the sea changed. We realised how quickly a game can turn dangerous. But we also realised something else; that True courage is not the absence of fear, but the willingness to act in spite of feeling it.
Today, as an adult, I know that courage and helping each other is not something that is only for adults. Sometimes it is the children who still believe in good, who still listen to their hearts and know how to act instinctively, who show what real responsibility means, as we did as little girls.
Zala Krupljan, 22 May 2025
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