August 1st, Wild Oaks Campground.
It started out like any other detecting adventure. I had my wetsuit on, headphones over my ears, detector in one hand, scoop in the other. I waded chest-deep into the lake, thinking everything was fine. The water was calm. The sun was out. I was in my zone.
But then I took one more step—and the world dropped out from under me.
I had hit a massive drop-off near the dock, and there was no warning. One moment I was standing on solid sand, the next I was in deep water, my feet scrambling for bottom that just wasn’t there.
I tried using my scoop to push myself back up, but I couldn’t find anything to stand on. The wetsuit that should’ve helped me float started working against me—forcing my head backward and my face into the water. No matter what I did—on my back or my stomach—it was like the suit was trying to drown me.
I told myself, “Don’t panic. Everyone says not to panic.”
So I didn’t. Not at first.
I kept trying to swim back to the shallows, still gripping my scoop and detector. I didn’t want to lose them. But that’s not what you’re supposed to do when you're drowning. You let go and save yourself. But I was being stubborn—and that stubbornness nearly cost me my life.
I floated on my back for what must’ve been 5, maybe 10 minutes. My legs were tangled in the wetsuit, and my arms were starting to give out. I finally let go of my equipment and tried to swim. But I wasn’t going anywhere.
I grabbed the only other thing I had—a homemade floating sifter made from a pop crate and pool noodles. It helped… a little. But not enough. My head kept slipping below the surface. My muscles were burning. My arms were done. My lungs were gulping in lake water.
And that’s when my Fitbit caught it—the exact moment I panicked. My heart rate spiked like a flare on a chart. It was like my body knew before my brain would admit it: You’re in trouble. (I can't seem to find the photo. Once I find it on my hard drive I will add it here)
I saw two people and a dog off in the distance on shore. I kept thinking, “Don’t panic. You’ve got this.” But then my mind went to a darker place.
I started thinking about my kids—about their little faces, about the possibility that I’d never see them again. About my wife doing this alone. About my parents getting that phone call. And how all of this… would be my fault.
I kept trying to swim, but I couldn’t. My arms were too tired. I couldn’t hold onto the float anymore.
That’s when my head slipped under.
That’s when I thought, this is it.
But somehow—somehow—I managed to get my mouth back above the surface. And that’s when the real panic set in. I cried out with everything I had left:
“Help! Help! Help me! Please help!”
Everything I’d ever done flashed before me. I saw each of my kids. I felt their pain. I saw my wife’s face, broken. It was the most terrifying, raw moment of my life.
And then—a bark.
The dog on the beach—a service dog—had started barking frantically. Not just out of confusion, but because it knew something was wrong. It was trained for this. That bark was a lifeline.
That’s when Anna and Wryan realized what was happening. They sprinted into action.
Anna grabbed a tube and threw it toward me. I rolled over and grabbed it with everything I had left—hugged it like it was the only solid thing left in the world. If a gorilla had tried to wrestle it from me, I would’ve won. That’s how hard I was holding on.
They pulled me in. My face was dragging through the sand as they hauled me to shore.
All I could do was cry and repeat over and over:
“All I can see are my kids’ faces.”
I was blue. In full shock. Barely coherent. That’s when Robert Stevenson showed up—someone we knew. He didn’t even recognize me at first, I looked so bad. But he pieced it together and got me into his truck, driving me straight to my inlaws’ campsite.
From there, we went straight to the hospital. My blood pressure had dropped to 96/60. I was cold, shaking, coughing up water, and beyond rattled. The doctors took X-rays to establish a baseline in case I had water in my lungs, which could lead to secondary drowning.
Thankfully… I recovered. But that moment changed me forever.
To Anna, Wryan, and Robert—thank you.
To Anna, Wryan, and Robert—thank you.
You didn’t just save a guy out for a casual hobby—you saved a father, a husband, a friend. You saved me from a moment that could’ve ended everything.
We later found Anna and Wryan at their campsite, and I was finally able to thank them face to face. I didn’t have the words then—and honestly, I still don’t. How do you thank someone for literally saving your life? For running into the water when no one else did? For seeing a stranger drowning and deciding not to wait?
And to that service dog—you were the first to know something was wrong. Your bark was the alarm that set everything in motion. You knew. And you didn’t stop.
And Robert Stevenson—thank you for hearing my cries from across the campground, for recognizing what was happening even when I was blue and incoherent, and for getting me back to my family when I couldn’t get there myself.
I’ll never forget what you all did. None of us will.
One Final Twist in the Story
The following weekend, our amazing friends Michelle and Chris, both scuba divers, offered to dive down and retrieve my gear. I figured it was lost for good—but they found it fast. Michelle spotted my scoop standing straight up on the lake bottom, as if it had been planted there on purpose. They recovered everything.
I owe them big time. Just like I owe everyone who was there that day.
Looking back on that day now, it all finally makes sense. At the time, I couldn’t figure out why I was struggling so hard—then it hit me: it was my headphones trying to take me out! I still had them on, and of course they were plugged into my detector. So while I was desperately trying to swim, my detector was sinking like an anchor, and I was basically getting dragged down with it. Honestly, it was like the perfect storm of bad decisions—straight out of a Final Destination movie, just starring me and a very determined pair of headphones.
Take it from me:
No matter how much experience you have, no matter how calm the water looks, no matter how confident you feel…
Respect the water. Respect the warning signs. And know when to let go.
Also, anyone wanna buy a slightly cursed wetsuit?
Didn’t think so.
~ Windy Digger
UPDATE: A Chance Encounter, Years Later
It’s been a few years since the day I almost drowned at Wild Oaks.
That day changed me—and my family—forever. I’ve told the story countless times. I’ve written it, relived it, and thought about it more than I can say. But something happened recently that brought it all flooding back in the best possible way.
We were at a Comic Con, just having a fun day out with my kids, and my dad—who was visiting from his neck of the woods. We were walking the floor, checking out the booths, when I spotted someone familiar across the room.
Wryan.
One of the people who helped save my life.
He was working at one of the booths, and I recognized him immediately. I leaned over and quietly said to my dad,
“That’s one of the people who saved me.”
My dad didn’t even blink.
He walked straight over to Wryan—tears in his eyes—and reached out to shake his hand. No introduction, no hesitation. Just a father finally meeting the man who helped bring his son back home.
I stood there watching them, feeling the weight of that moment all over again. The quiet kind of gratitude that doesn’t fade with time. The unspoken bond between people whose lives crossed in a life-or-death moment.
Wryan didn’t just save me—he gave my dad another day with his son. Another Comic Con. Another moment like that one.
Sometimes, life brings things full circle in the most unexpected ways.
And when it does… all you can do is be thankful.
From the bottom of my heart—again—thank you, Wryan.
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