Frank and I only get married in places with an active volcano. Bali has three: Agung, Batur and Buyan-Bratan. The rule came about because we noticed our first two locations, Bali and Sicily, had that in common. Neither of us want to get married for real again, but we take our vacation versions very seriously, finding our outfits, witnesses and rings in the country of the ceremony.
On the day of our Bali wedding, we were having lunch at a restaurant overlooking Nusa Lembongan’s Dream beach. My first reaction, when Frank pointed out the swimmer floundering way beyond the breaks, was detachment. My fork may have paused en route to my mouth. I’m not great in a crisis.
Frank, however, pulled off his shirt and ran down the cliff steps to the beach. Now I was alert. I got to my feet and spotted him down on the sand, analysing where the rip was, like a dog about to pounce on a ball. Then he was in, swimming for the horizon.
A crowd gathered. The swimmer windmilled his arms, head tilted back, gulping for air. I plotted Frank’s curved trajectory. Point A was unlikely to meet point B in time.
Three thoughts dominated my mind. You didn’t consult me! Of all the ways you’ve died in my mind, this wasn’t one! But it’s our wedding day! Frank towed the swimmer back to safety. The guy, a French tourist, was so weak he could barely speak.
Frank was rattled about the bystander effect on that beach. Even when the guy was lying limply on the sand next to his distraught girlfriend, no one checked on him. No one made eye contact with Frank either, let alone bought him a bloody beer.
My reaction was selfish but primal. Back at the villa, I used the pool to demonstrate how most would-be heroes in that situation could instead be liabilities. I hooked my arm around Frank’s neck rather than his chest, dragging us under in one metre of water. I think that’s how we were taught in swimming lessons in the UK.
This incident tapped into my growing fear of Frank’s death, the kind of fear I haven’t had since I was a kid and obsessed over my mother’s potential demise. Grief is the price of love, and when you really love someone, you have to come to terms with the fact that you might lose them. Especially if they’re the type to put their life at risk for someone else’s.
The stakes weren’t as high for Frank. As an Australian surfer he was confident the rip would carry him out and around. Confident even on Dream beach, where a Tripadvisor review describes the swimming as “more like nightmare beach”. (He admitted to an internal soundtrack, something ebullient, as he bounded down the cliffside.) Frank also doesn’t worry about the impact my death will have on him because, we both agree, he’s more likely to die first.
I made an amendment to my vows before we met our witnesses at the hotel at 6pm. The word “hero” might have been inserted. Thank God you were there, I thought. Thank God you are still here.
In the airport’s departure lounge, Frank scanned the faces, only half-joking that the French tourist and his filthy-rich father – Arnault? Pinault? – might come rushing up in gratitude.
In two months’ time, we’re getting married in Iceland. Intellectually I believe that to love Frank means never cooling his jets, but I won’t be telling him about the stunning (notoriously lethal) Reynisfjara beach.
