Lost and Alone in the French Alps

Looking back now, I can pinpoint the moment my sense of bravery quietly rearranged itself. It began, as many pivotal moments do, with someone else’s idea. This time, it was my cousin Hannah, who introduced me to Marcus at a birthday dinner I hadn’t wanted to attend. He was charming in an understated way, the kind of man who didn’t try to impress because he didn’t think he needed to. I was drawn in almost immediately.

Marcus worked in finance and lived in a world far shinier than mine. While I rented a modest flat and counted every expense, he spoke casually about weekends away and family traditions that involved passports rather than packed lunches. Still, he never made me feel small—at least not intentionally. When he invited me, six weeks into dating, to join his family on a summer sailing holiday along the Croatian coast, I said yes before my fear had time to catch up.

His family would be there too: his older brother Julian, Julian’s wife Celeste, and their two children—eighteen-year-old Leo, who spoke like he’d swallowed a dictionary, and ten-year-old Isla, who observed everything in silence. I knew immediately who the real judge in the room would be.

Money became my first obstacle. Sailing wasn’t exactly budget-friendly, and I’d never set foot on a boat larger than a ferry. Marcus suggested I move in with him temporarily to save costs, which I did, convincing myself it was practical rather than premature. I borrowed deck shoes from a friend, bought second-hand linen clothes online, and told myself that confidence could disguise almost anything.

Leo wasted no time exposing my nerves. At a family lunch before the trip, he glanced at my sandals and smirked, saying, “Very… sustainable of you.” I laughed politely, but the comment lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable. Marcus brushed it off, but I felt that old, familiar itch—the one that whispered I didn’t quite belong.

Despite that, excitement carried me forward. I imagined turquoise water, sunlit decks, laughter over wine at dusk. Adventure has a way of blinding you to your doubts.

We arrived in Split on a blazing afternoon and boarded the yacht shortly after. The boat was beautiful—sleek, white, intimidating. Celeste moved around it like she’d been born on water. I moved carefully, hyper-aware of every step.

On the second day, we anchored near a quiet cove. The sea looked deceptively calm, stretching endlessly in shades of blue. Everyone decided to swim out to a nearby rock formation. I hesitated. I wasn’t a strong swimmer, and the distance looked farther than I was comfortable admitting.

“You’ll be fine,” Julian said breezily, already halfway into the water.

I followed anyway. Pride is a powerful motivator.

At first, it was exhilarating—the cool water, the weightlessness. But as the boat drifted slightly and the others surged ahead, panic crept in. My strokes became erratic, my breathing shallow. I stopped, treading water, realising with horror that I couldn’t see the boat clearly anymore.

I called out once. No one heard me.

The current was subtle but persistent, nudging me away from the group. Every attempt to swim forward felt futile. My limbs grew heavy, my chest tight. I was acutely aware of how small I was in that vastness.

Just as the thought of real danger took hold, I noticed a kayak approaching from the opposite direction. Two older men paddled slowly, scanning the water. I waved weakly, summoning what little strength I had left.

They reached me quickly. One spoke broken English, asking if I was okay. I shook my head, tears mixing with saltwater. Without hesitation, they helped me cling to the side of the kayak and towed me toward shore.

On the pebbled beach, wrapped in a towel I didn’t recognise, the shock gave way to sobs. The men stayed until I could stand, offering water and gentle reassurance. By the time Marcus found me—ashen-faced and frantic—I was safe.

The silence that followed was heavy. Julian apologised awkwardly. Celeste avoided my eyes. Leo said nothing at all.

Later that evening, alone on the deck, I realised something fundamental had shifted. The adventure hadn’t gone as planned, but it had shown me exactly where I stood—and where I didn’t want to stand anymore.

Years later, Marcus and I went our separate ways. His world remained glossy, controlled, untouched by vulnerability. Mine grew quieter, richer in different ways.

I still think about those two men in the kayak. I don’t know their names, but I know this: sometimes, angels arrive not with wings, but with paddles, patience, and the instinct to stop when something feels wrong.

Adventures will always carry risk. But they also carry truth. And that day, adrift between fear and rescue, I learned that survival isn’t about keeping up—it’s about knowing when to reach out.

And that lesson, unlike the holiday, stayed with me.