I fell off a party yacht and was rescued by a married man. He took me home and stayed the night.
- By: Amanda Coscarelli
This story has been submitted by a LOOP reader…
Let me get one thing straight: I didn’t know he was married until his phone rang in the morning and a picture of his “wifey” popped up on his screen.
If you’ve never been on a party yacht, imagine a nightclub that sways, smells faintly of sunscreen and tequila, and insists on turning every bad decision into a maritime incident. That was me last summer, balancing a plastic flute of champagne while the DJ dropped something bass-heavy and optimistic. The city glittered around us like it was cheering us on. I felt invincible. I felt taller than the railing. I felt—briefly—like gravity was optional.
It wasn’t.
One second I was laughing at a stranger’s joke, the next I was doing a clumsy pirouette and the water swallowed me whole. The music kept playing. The lights kept flashing. The ocean, merciless and cold, slapped the invincibility right out of me.
Hands grabbed my arms. A voice cut through the chaos, calm and low, telling me to kick. He hauled me up like it was a practiced move, like he’d done this before—or at least rehearsed it in his head. On deck, wrapped in a towel that smelled like detergent and salt, I shook so hard my teeth chattered. He crouched in front of me, brown eyes steady, apologizing as if the whole thing were his fault.
One second I was laughing at a stranger’s joke, the next I was doing a clumsy pirouette and the water swallowed me whole.
“I’m Mark,” he said, offering me water, then his hoodie when he noticed my dress was soaked through. He smelled like cedar and citrus. He had laugh lines and the kind of confidence that comes from knowing how to be useful in a crisis. The staff made a fuss. Someone joked about mermaids. The DJ announced a safety reminder that no one listened to.
Mark stayed with me as the party went on without us. He kept asking if I felt dizzy, if I could breathe, if I wanted to sit. I wanted to leave, suddenly aware of how stupid I’d been, how thin the line was between a story you laugh about and one you don’t get to tell. He offered to get me home. I hesitated, then nodded, the night pressing in, my phone dead, my dress clinging.
My apartment was only a few blocks away, the walk quiet and surreal, like we were sneaking out of a different version of the evening. He kept checking if I felt dizzy, if I needed to sit. At my place, he insisted on coming in “just for a minute” to make sure I was okay.
He boiled water for tea in my tiny kitchen while I changed out of my salt-stiff dress. I gave him an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants from my ex’s forgotten drawer. We sat on opposite sides of the couch at first, talking the way people do after something scary—fast, then slower, filling the silence with stories. He told me about his job. I told him about mine. He didn’t mention anyone else.
At some point, the adrenaline faded. At some point, our knees touched. I remember thinking how strange it was that someone who’d saved me from the ocean now felt like the safest thing in the room. What happened next wasn’t reckless or wild. It was quiet. Gentle. Two adults, softened by proximity and gratitude, making a choice that felt comforting in the moment.
He stayed the night.
I wanted to leave, suddenly aware of how thin the line was between a story you laugh about and one you don’t get to tell.
Morning arrived pale and unromantic, light leaking through my blinds. I woke to the sound of his phone buzzing on my nightstand. He groaned and reached for it without opening his eyes. Then the screen lit up.
A smiling blonde woman stared back at me, her face pressed against his in the photo. The contact name read: “Wifey ❤️.”
The room went silent.
“I should’ve told you,” he said immediately, sitting up, already defensive. He talked quickly—about a rough patch, about being “basically separated,” about how complicated everything was. I sat there pulling the sheet up to my chest, feeling stupid in a way that burned. Complicated is a word people use when they want sympathy without accountability.
I asked him to leave. He did, apologizing again, this time without meeting my eyes.
After the door closed, I sat alone on the edge of my bed, replaying the night like it belonged to someone else. Friends texted asking if I survived the yacht incident. I told them yes. I didn’t tell them everything.
I still think about that night when I pass the marina, about how quickly things can tip, how rescue and regret can come from the same set of hands. I don’t think Mark is a villain, and I know I’m not a victim. We were just two people meeting at the wrong angle, at the wrong time, with the music too loud to hear the warnings.
If there’s a moral here, it’s not about yachts or marriage. It’s about staying upright when you can, and swimming hard when you can’t.
