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Jan and Brian Tjader with their daughter in the early 1980s.

I wiped my forehead and tugged the cooler out of the car. The late afternoon air hissed with breezeless heat, and Lake Michigan gleamed smooth as glass. A picnic supper on the motorboat would be the perfect escape from the July humidity.

A few miles offshore, my husband Brian turned off the engine and began setting up fishing poles. I held 18-month-old Kristen on my lap—though at eight-months pregnant, I didn't have much lap left. Her chubby fingers gripped the wheel. "I steering, Mommy."

"Yes, honey. You're steering … "

	As I stared across the vast, dark water, I realized I had no control. My very life and the lives of my family were completely out of my hands.

My voice trailed off, and I stared down at the inch of water covering my bare toes.

"Brian, why are my feet wet?" I called.

He checked the drain and saw the plug was in place.

"Quick! Start the engine," he shouted.

I turned the key. The motor sputtered, but didn't start. I tried again. Nothing.

Brian lunged forward to help, and his sudden weight shift sent water pouring over the side of the boat. We grabbed buckets and scrambled to bail, but the water came too fast. Hoping to keep the boat afloat, Brian jumped in the lake, but the movement flipped the boat, trapping Kristen and me underneath.

Engulfed in darkness, I clutched Kristen and paddled to keep our heads in the air pocket. Why did I take off her lifejacket? At the dock she cried and tugged at it relentlessly until I gave in and removed it. Kristen wore only a disposable diaper, and her bare skin was slippery. I groped in the blackness and felt a strap. A lifejacket!

Kicking my legs furiously, I fought to wrap the lifejacket around Kristen. Suddenly, I felt a tug on my foot. Brian, thinking I was stuck, kept diving down and pulling on my leg. I kicked desperately to stay afloat. Oh God, please help me.

"Okay, sweetheart, let's hold our breath." Kristen's swimming instructors taught parents to blow on their children's faces to signal they should hold their breath. Kristen loved the game. She eagerly played along, and we surfaced quickly.

Waiting and hoping
Only the tip of our boat's hull poked above water, and the three of us perched on our tiny island in the middle of the lake. I wanted to swim for shore. But Brian had grown up on the lake, and knew the rule: "Always stay with your boat." I decided to trust him. Surely someone will find us soon.

Within a few minutes, a white speck appeared in the distance. Brian jumped to his feet, shouting and waving his arms. The sudden motion rocked the boat and pitched Kristen and me into the water.

"Keep yelling, honey!" I called. Kristen's lifejacket helped us both stay afloat. Still, my stomach had scraped the edge of the boat when I fell, and I grimaced with pain.

When the sailboat continued out of sight, Brian helped us back onto the boat. "We'll get the next one," he said.

Soon a motorboat chugged into view. Brian vaulted to his feet and shouted. Again, the wobbling motion plunged Kristen and me into the lake. Tears stung my eyes when my stomach banged the slippery fiberglass. "I'm sorry," I whispered to the child inside me. I, too, yelled for help and was surprised when my voice quivered.

"So much for the humidity," I joked when Brian helped me climb back onto the boat. He noticed me shivering and wrapped his arms around Kristen and me.

The scene repeated itself a dozen times throughout the next few hours. Each time a boat appeared, Brian stood and yelled, and Kristen and I tumbled into the lake.

Kristen gripped my cheeks. "Mommy? We go home now?"

"Yes, sweetie, we'll go home soon." I smoothed her dripping hair and pulled her close. For the first time, a horrible thought struck me. What if no one finds us? As the sun sank lower, we saw fewer boats. And who would look for us? We hadn't told anyone where we were going. Would anyone spot three heads bobbing on a huge, empty lake?

"Please, God. Send someone to find us," I prayed aloud. "Please."

We saw no boats for almost an hour. Then, a large motorboat appeared—closer than any of the others! Brian's strong voice bellowed across the silent lake.

"How can they not hear?" I cried as the boat cut through the water and disappeared from sight.

When Brian reached to help me up, I shook my head. "I can't climb up there again."

"You have to. You'll freeze in the water," he said. "Come on, honey."

Summoning every ounce of strength, I gripped Brian's hand. Halfway up the side of the boat, our hands slipped, and I fell back into the water.

"I have to rest, Brian. I can't do this anymore."

Holding Kristen, Brian slid down the boat into the water next to me.

"What if we're out here all night?" I said through chattering teeth.

Brian didn't answer. The chilling reality of our situation sank in. Exhaustion, hypothermia, approaching darkness, dwindling boaters—our chances of being found grew less likely by the minute.

Saying goodbye
We knew I couldn't make it through the night on my own, and Brian couldn't hold both Kristen and me up all night. Even if I could climb back on the boat, hypothermia threatened to set in. I'd been shaking for hours, and once the sun went down, the temperature would drop. We made our decision: Kristen's life came first. She might survive if Brian held her and kept her warm through the night.

Saying goodbye to my husband after just three years of marriage felt surreal. Brian told me he loved me, that he had no regrets about our life together. I whispered I'd be waiting for him in heaven. We mourned for our unborn child. We prayed for each other and for Kristen, and we prayed for our loved ones back home. We prayed for a miracle.

Then Brian climbed back on the boat with Kristen. No longer waiting to see a boat, he just kept shouting desperately.

Time stood still as I bobbed next to the boat. I wondered how my husband and daughter would manage. I imagined Kristen growing up—her first day of school, the prom, her wedding—all without me there. I thought about the child inside me. Would I know her in heaven? I wondered what death would feel like.

Utter helplessness washed over me. I'd always been strong and independent. I figured I could handle just about anything. Yet as I stared across the vast, dark water, I realized I had no control. None. My very life and the lives of my family were completely out of my hands. Strangely, the thought comforted me. I watched the fading glow on the western horizon. My life is in your hands, God.

Suddenly, a dark shape loomed in front of me. "Hey, there!" a voice called through the dusk.

"Bring them home safely"
Wrapped in a picnic blanket, I held Kristen close and sang silent praises to God. The rescue vessel was little more than a motorized rowboat, and I worried our added weight might sink it. But slowly, steadily we chugged into harbor.

During the following weeks, we learned that a hairline crack allowed water to seep into our boat. We also learned about a series of "coincidences" that enabled us to survive. The folks who rescued us heard Brian's shouts over the putt-putt of their tiny motor and followed the sound across the lake. Employees at the dock expressed disbelief when they learned we'd been in the water more than five hours. One told Brian that the water temperature had recently shot up, and we wouldn't have survived 30 minutes the previous week.

Brian and I know luck had nothing to do with it. Another "coincidence" better explained our rescue. The evening of the accident, Brian's grandmother took a walk along the beach. As she gazed across the shimmering lake, she felt compelled to pray. "Lord, if any of my family are out there, please watch over them and bring them home safely."

That was 23 years ago. Though I sometimes wonder why God gave us a second chance at life, I'm thankful He did. I now know my life is in His hands, not my own. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Karen Langley is a freelance writer in Zion, Illinois.

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