In circa 2016, I was stationed at Vandenberg Air Force Base in California, serving as an Air Force flight surgeon. I was a captain and was approaching the end of my four-year commitment, preparing to separate from the military. One particular day on North Base, an unforgettable event unfolded.

My friend BK and I had decided to go surfing, taking advantage of a massive 15-foot swell that had rolled in. We headed to one of the local spots—a horseshoe-shaped beach known for its waves, which were relatively mellow on very big wave days. The swell was powerful but somewhat manageable there. We paddled out.

The waves were mushy but fun in our little protected bowl. I was riding a few waves with BK when things took a sudden turn. A strong current grabbed me, pulling me out of position. It wasn’t a classic rip current that pulls you straight out to sea, but rather one that dragged me south along the coast. I had heard stories from local surfers about currents like this—some pulling people much deeper into the ocean—so I was alert but determined to manage the situation.

Initially, there was a moment of panic as I realized I was being swept away. But almost immediately, I gave myself deliberate mental instructions to stay calm. “Don’t fight it. Swim with the current,” I told myself. I knew I had to conserve my energy and work with the ocean rather than against it. The current, surprisingly, seemed to cooperate. Instead of pulling me farther out, it moved me along the shore and closer to what I can only describe as a natural “escape ramp.” It reminded me of those runaway truck ramps on steep grades—a narrow, clear path back to safety.

I focused all my efforts on navigating toward this feature. The process, though intense, was surprisingly short. The current brought me closer to shore instead of taking me farther out, and soon I saw BK standing on the beach near what I had identified as my exit point. Relief and joy washed over me as I realized I had made it through.

When I reached the shore, exhaustion set in. BK, standing high above me, didn’t say much but offered a few words that carried immense weight: “Wow, that was intense. You did good. You stayed calm.” It was a powerful moment of acknowledgment from a friend who had witnessed the ordeal from a distance.

The truth is, the experience didn’t involve flashing thoughts of my life or any dramatic internal monologues. It was simply about staying present, following practical steps, and trusting my instincts. The ocean that day reminded me of its immense power and unpredictability. It was humbling and deeply grounding.

Looking back, that brush with danger has stayed with me as a reminder of the importance of composure under pressure—a skill honed during my time in the Air Force. In a way, it also became a metaphor for my transition from military to civilian life. Just as I navigated out of the waves, I found my way through uncharted waters, adapting to a new chapter filled with its own challenges and opportunities.