“I have three babies,” she said softly. “All three made it. That’s all that matters.” – BETWEEN THE TRACKS

What had begun as a carefree family outing on a sunlit stretch of Western Australian shore suddenly spun into a harrowing ten-hour struggle—and an extraordinary testament to a 13-year-old’s resolve.

The morning had been bright, the surf a glassy blue, as Joanne Appelbee and her children—Austin, 13; Beau, 12; and Grace, 8—launched their paddleboards and kayak into the gentle waves off Quindalup beach. The salt spray tasted of freedom, and laughter danced on the breeze.

Then a dark bank of cloud swept in offshore, and the wind scooped the ocean into frothing swells. In moments their oars were torn from their grips and carried away. The family’s vessels began drifting relentlessly seaward. “One minute we were drifting lazily, the next we’d lost every paddle,” Joanne recalled, her voice trembling.

Realizing they faced grave danger, Joanne made a wrenching decision. With Beau and Grace clinging to the paddleboard, she turned to her eldest. In that charged instant—heart pounding, waves thrashing—she entrusted Austin with one desperate task: reach land and summon help.

Austin pushed off in the inflatable kayak, its bright yellow hull bobbing among the swells. But the angry sea soon found a seam in the fabric. Water sluiced in around his legs. He lost an oar to a towering breaker. The kayak heeled over, flinging him into the churning water.

Undeterred, he clambered back on, then watched in horror as another wave capsized the craft entirely. Clutching the shredded remains, he kicked free, life jacket trailing uselessly behind him. Salt stung his eyes, his arms burned with each stroke as he fought the swell with nothing but bare hands and raw determination.

For nearly four hours, Austin battled toward the distant ribbon of shore that beckoned through spray and spray. The sea around him rose and fell like glass mountains, each crest threatening to drag him under. Fatigue sank into his muscles, and cold seeped into his bones, but he drove himself on. “I was terrified,” he later admitted to a reporter, “but I kept telling myself, Not today.”

Back out at sea, Joanne, Beau, and Grace huddled atop the lone paddleboard, their bright life jackets bobbing against the dark water. The wind clawed at their clothes, hunger gnawed at their bellies, and the sun dipped toward the horizon, sending shards of pink light across the waves. They sang hymns softly and whispered prayers into the gathering dusk.

In the waning light, memories of home—muffled jokes around the dinner table, Grace’s giggles—became Austin’s guiding stars. He sang Christian songs under his breath and willed his limbs to move another stroke, another breath, inching closer to solid ground.

Finally, just after six in the evening, his fingers scraped against wet sand. He collapsed onto the beach, lungs heaving, vision blurred by tears and salt. He crawled toward his mother’s abandoned bag, fumbled out a phone, and managed an emergency call before his body gave way.

That call unleashed a vast rescue operation. As twilight deepened, a helicopter’s spotlight swept across the dark waters, at last picking out Joanne and the two younger children nearly nine miles offshore. Hypothermic and trembling, they were floating on borrowed hope—but alive.

When medics pulled the three from the surf, Beau’s legs were numb and Grace’s teeth chattered uncontrollably. Tears and relief mingled as they were wrapped in thermal blankets and flown to safety.

Back on shore, paramedics carried Austin—exhausted, drenched, and bruised—to an ambulance. When he learned his family was safe, his fatigue melted into disbelief and joy. Uniformed rescuers leapt and cheered.

Within days all four were discharged with only minor injuries. Austin, muscles still screaming, hobbled back to school on crutches, greeted by applause and wide-eyed classmates. Though praised as a hero, he simply shook his head. “I did what I had to,” he said quietly, calling it a tough battle rather than a triumph.

Rescue commander Paul Bresland called Austin’s resolve “superhuman,” and Police Inspector James Bradley said the boy’s courage “cannot be praised highly enough.”

But Joanne’s gratitude was even more straightforward: “I have three babies,” she said softly. “All three made it. That’s all that matters.”

-30-

MARK YOUR CALENDAR:

Saturday Feb. 21 at 11 am at the Episcopal Church, Tybee Island

MEET DARRYL ARMSTRONG, AUTHOR OF BETWEEN THE TRACKS

“A fellow writer once told me that if you weren’t making your readers laugh or cry, you weren’t doing your job.  Well, Armstrong’s BETWEEN THE TRACKS certainly did this. He can let us see the world through a child’s eyes or make us want to hug our dogs while we still can.  His chapters about characters he has known remind me of flipping through a family album with an old friend, where every picture tells a story. So, take your time with this book, and let each story sink in as they are meant to. – Jim Mize, author ofA Creek Trickles Through It: A Collection of Fly-Fishing Humor, and The Jon Boat Years

For seventy years, Darryl Armstrong has been collecting stories like river stones—smooth, varied, each with its own weight and shine. BETWEEN THE TRACKS presents these “down-home-heartfelt” tales, illuminating those in-between spaces where life truly happens.

Books will be available for purchase, and I’ll gratefully sign them for you. DA

Tybee residents we will personally deliver a signed and expanded copy. text Kay at 270.853.9450