I couldn’t stand up.
The sun was setting over a remote beach, we were out of water, there was no cell service, and walking wasn’t an option.
A few hours earlier, none of that seemed possible. Looking back, I realize this experience taught me more about service than any professional training ever did.
When I think of service, I think of helpers. Not just professionals—nurses, doctors, social workers—but caregivers and everyday Good Samaritans.
Some of the best people I know live in Ecuador. We can’t really speak—I don’t know Spanish, and we stay in touch through Facebook—but that hasn’t changed what they are to me: not just saviors, but lifelong friends.
…
As it happened, my partner and I were traveling in Ecuador and the Galápagos. We were on the island of San Cristóbal and had separated from our group. Not sure how we wanted to spend the day, we decided to go hiking.
What Could Go Wrong?
There was a trail leading to a beach marked by a small sign warning that it was “advanced.” I brushed it off. In the United States, “advanced” just means it’s not wheelchair accessible. And this was before my stroke. I considered myself more than capable.
At first, it seemed like an easy decision. The path was flat, winding through dense foliage. Sunlight broke through in flashes, catching on the water below. We walked comfortably, unhurried, with the kind of quiet confidence that comes from assuming you know what you’re doing.
Then the path changed.
Abruptly, it turned rocky. The air felt heavier. We were sweating, and it hit us at the same time—we had one half-full bottle of water between us and no sunscreen.
Past the Point of Turning Back
The trail became unstable. I was slipping, catching myself, adjusting with every step. And still, the signposts kept appearing, each one promising the same thing: the next scenic point was just 2 km away. Five minutes.
Five more minutes? Fine. I can do five more minutes.
And the signs kept coming. Each one said we were almost there. Each one was wrong.
We kept going.
I told myself the trail must loop—that once we reached the beach, we wouldn’t have to turn around. That it would all make sense once we got there. Iguana Beach, where black iguanas bob in the waves, felt close enough to justify continuing.
My partner was fine. I wasn’t.
We occasionally stepped aside to let the actual “advanced” hikers pass. In brief exchanges, we learned the truth: the trail wasn’t a loop. We would have to go back the way we came.
I needed water. We hadn’t even had breakfast. Still, I kept going. Stubbornness can look a lot like endurance.
The terrain worsened. Small rocks gave way to boulders we had to climb. The shade disappeared. The sun wasn’t filtering through the trees anymore—it was direct, relentless. I was wearing dark clothes that absorbed the heat. I could feel it on my skin, sharp and constant.
We ran out of water.
And still, at my insistence—out of breath, but pushing—we climbed to the top and reached the beach.
It was breathtaking. The iguanas looked prehistoric, rising and falling with the waves like something ancient and indifferent.
I’m Not Okay
But something was off.
I didn’t feel sick exactly. Just… wrong. Lightheaded. Distant. Sounds felt muted, like I was underwater. My body felt weak in a way that didn’t match the effort.
I told myself I was fine. I knew I wasn’t.
I started thinking ahead—where we could stop, where we could rest. Whether we could stay there until morning. The idea of camping crossed my mind, followed immediately by the reality of it. Insects. Crabs. Terrifying.
The sun was starting to drop.
“We need to go now or we’re not going to make it before dark,” my partner said.
I could see fear in his eyes.
I tried to pull something from myself—anything. The same stubbornness that got me up the mountain. But there was nothing left to draw from.
Now I felt sick.
My breathing came in short, uneven bursts. My heart pounded in my ears. I felt like I might vomit. I wanted relief—something immediate and physical. A cold shower. A slap to the face. Anything.
Instead, I lay down on a large rock.
I asked my partner to call EMS. No service.
People passed by. Some offered water. Others asked, hesitantly, what we were going to do. Then they kept walking.
I needed to get out of the sun. I couldn’t stand up.
My legs were done. Useless.
Walking wasn’t an option.
When Strangers Became Heroes
That’s when my Good Samaritans arrived. Two brothers with one of their friends.
They helped us try EMS first, but no one was coming. We were too far out.
So they made a decision.
Without hesitation, the two young men lifted me. There was no discussion, no visible effort—just action, as if this were obvious to them.
The young woman with them offered me a snack, speaking gently, but my mouth was too dry. I couldn’t chew. I had forgotten how to eat in that moment. I could barely respond.
Carrying me didn’t last. The terrain made it impossible. So they adjusted. They positioned me between them and had me wrap my arms over their shoulders.
They half-carried, half-dragged me down the trail. My feet touched the ground occasionally, catching a step when they could. The rest of the time, they moved me.
We reached a large cove—the same one we had passed before.
My partner began speaking with the young men in Spanish. I couldn’t understand the words, but I recognized the tone. Something had changed.
I was right to be alarmed.
Swimming Against the Clock
The plan was simple and terrifying: I would get in the water and swim across with help. At the pace we were moving, the sun would set before we could make it around the cove.
I am about as “advanced” a swimmer as I am a hiker.
They guided me toward the water. I nearly slipped on the rocks on the way down.
Then I was in.
One of them positioned himself in front of me and had me wrap my arms around him. He would swim. I would hold on.
Instead of crossing the entire cove, we veered along the coastline. He hoisted me onto a large rock.
I had no idea if this was part of a plan.
Then he shouted, “Ayuda!”—one of the few Spanish words I know. Help.
On the far side, a group of people turned. A few of the men swam out to us with a boogie board attached to a rope.
I held on as they pulled me through the water toward the dock.
The current was stronger than expected. The distance, longer. Even he couldn’t have made it across.
My partner and the other Samaritans were waiting when we reached the other side. Without me, they had moved quickly.
The sun was setting as we made it back down.
Beyond the Rescue
They stayed with us. Helped us find a taxi. Made sure we were okay before they left.
The water had shocked my system enough to pull me out of the worst of it. Otherwise, it might have progressed to heat stroke. Later, I realized they likely knew exactly what they were doing.
We stayed in touch afterward. One of them coaches a kids’ soccer team. It’s specifically for troubled youth. It almost seemed like fate as my partner and I both work with troubled individuals. We sent a donation, and happily, they were able to get new uniforms.
If they hadn’t been there—at that exact place, at that exact time—the outcome could have been very different.
That experience changed how I think about service. It isn’t limited to professions or titles. It shows up in moments, in decisions, in people who step in without being asked.
I have never experienced that kind of kindness from strangers before.
And I won’t forget it.
For years, I assumed service meant having the right credentials, the right job title, or the right training. But on that day, service looked much simpler. It looked like noticing someone in trouble and deciding not to walk away.
Final Thoughts
What unsettled me most wasn’t the danger. It was how hard it was to accept help.
I’ve built a life around being the helper. Giving feels natural. Receiving feels foreign. I felt embarrassed.
But those strangers did something I don’t always do myself: they helped without hesitation, without recognition, without needing anything in return.
That’s real service.