I dove headfirst into the raging waters.

The current dragged me under and pushed me against jagged rocks and broken branches that scratched and cut my skin.

Regaining control, I pressed my body against the current’s stranglehold and swam toward the surface. As I broke through, I inhaled sharply, filling my lungs with fresh air and mist.

Swimming was as necessary as walking. Parents do know best.

In front of me, the young boy’s form bobbed up and down in the water before rapids reclaimed him and dragged him under again.

Why had I done this? I questioned myself as I dove back under. No immediate answer came to me, because it wasn’t a logical decision.

Through the murky depths, I spotted his silhouette being tossed by the current. I surged toward him, pushing my legs to beat against the water with every ounce of energy I had, even though it felt like struggling against a magnetic force or like swimming through syrup.

Reaching out with my right arm, I gripped his arm, pulling him toward me just as a massive piece of driftwood barreled by, missing us by mere inches.

Even as a trained swimmer, doubts filled my mind about whether either of us would actually make it. It was likely that we would both drown.

No, not before I get my hands on the bastards that dumped me out here.

The desire to exact revenge propelled me to kick harder, as we made our way to the surface. I pushed forward, my muscles straining and lungs burning for oxygen.

Our ascent was violently halted as we were caught in a current. The river smashed me against a towering boulder, knocking the remaining air from my body.

Don’t inhale. Don’t panic.

Gritting my teeth, I threw out my free arm, fingers seeking a lifeline on the slick stone surface as the river threatened to pull us further downstream. I found a jagged aperture, and I clung on, the sharp edge slicing the skin open.

Grasping the boy tightly, my feet searched for footholds on the boulder’s surface. I located a small jutting, and with painstaking effort, I heaved us both out of the water and onto the rock’s sloped ledge.

I had no idea how far we had been carried downstream, as everything looked the same around us, other than the missing shrieking children.

Carefully positioning my hand over the child’s mouth and nose, I checked for his breath, but there was none. I pressed my mouth to his and blew into his tiny frame, and pressed on his chest three times.

Muffled shouts reached my ears.

“We’re over here,” I screamed back.

The cries grew closer, but I didn’t dare look up to locate them, as the boy continued to lie still.

Am I doing this wrong? I second-guess myself as I pressed on his chest with shaky and bleeding hands.

My vision blurred with hot tears.

It’s not working. Why isn’t it working?

I was not prepared to fail. How do teenage lifeguards handle this?