
‘Never been as scared': One woman's encounter with N.S. waters as National Drowning Prevention Week kicks off
About 450 people drown in Canada each year, and most victims can swim.
It was a weekend at the cottage like any other for Allison Deveau.
After putting her paddle board on a sandbar in Amherst Shore, N.S., she went inside to get something to eat. She came back outside only to discover it had floated away.
Thinking quickly, she borrowed a kayak from a neighbour and went out to get it.
'I was quite confident, I'm a strong swimmer, and I was quite confident that I could get to it,' she tells CTV.
Finally, she got to the board and strapped it to her ankle before turning back.
'I had texted my husband from there and let him know that I had the paddle board, and I was heading back, and he had said, 'If it's too hard, to ditch the paddle board, it's not worth it.'
Choppy water with whitecaps made it a challenging paddle.
She ditched the board and focused on getting back to shore, but the water was too strong.
'I knew that I wouldn't sink, but I was sitting out there, with really strong winds,' she says.
Thankfully, she was wearing a lifejacket and didn't fear drowning in the kayak, but knew she was in trouble.
'I need help'
'I need help, find somebody with a boat,' she told her husband.
Without luck, he called 911. But while he was on the phone, he spotted a Sea-Doo heading her way.
The Sea-Doo was low on gas and the driver feared they might not make it in, but thankfully, the pair made it to shore.
Deveau's experience is a reminder of the dangers on the water – and how quickly things can get out of control.
Rainbow Haven Beach
Lifejackets or PFDs can be loaned to youth in need at Rainbow Haven Beach in Cow Bay, N.S. (CTV Atlantic / Callum Smith)
Teaching moment
As much as she regrets what happened, Deveau says it was a teaching moment for her and her family.
She told her son, 'Buddy, I have never been as scared as I was at that moment. Please don't let that ever happen to you.
'Because if there hadn't been anyone around or if I didn't have cell service, I don't know what would have happened.'
This year's theme for National Drowning Prevention Week is Safer Together, encouraging people to never hit the water alone.
'20 per cent of drownings annually are people that are out there alone,' Michael Melenchuk, the executive director of the Lifesaving Society of Nova Scotia told CTV Morning Live on Monday.
'They were canoeing, they were boating or swimming or snorkelling and they were doing it by themselves and, in some cases, not telling their loved ones how long they were going to be gone.'
At Rainbow Haven Beach in Cow Bay, N.S., what people don't know sometimes poses the greatest risk.
'We have a giant channel that's along the beach,' says lifeguard Jillian Thomas. 'People jumping into that, not knowing what's underneath and how strong the currents are… So, that's probably the biggest risk.'
She says the other thing lifeguards witness is people trying to swim certain distances but not actually realizing how far out they are.
For more Nova Scotia news, visit our dedicated provincial page
Hashtags

Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles


CBC
14 minutes ago
- CBC
Happy Valley-Goose Bay SPCA struggling to get by this summer
Labrador's only SPCA animal shelter is once again pleading for help as it struggles to keep operations going. Bonnie Learning, a longtime volunteer with the Happy Valley-Goose Bay SPCA, said the summer months have been financially difficult in recent years. She said fundraising is getting harder for the non-profit organization. "The cost of living is going up," Learning said in an interview with CBC Radio's Labrador Morning on Monday. "There's not as much disposable income to donate or spend otherwise. "It's hard for everybody, including not-for-profits and charities," she said. Learning said the organization spends about $400,000 on its operations every year. Seventy per cent of that money goes toward full-time employees' wages and vet bills for the animals, she said. However, the former vice-president said the SPCA ensures those two expenses are covered, no matter what the financial situation is. The staff instead has to make decisions on what brand of dog food to buy, for example. The small shelter — home to cats, dogs and other small animals for adoption or fostering — holds a variety of fundraisers throughout the year, but Learning said their most helpful ones don't happen until fall. In a social media post, Learning said if the shelter doesn't get more monetary support, it will have to stop all intake of new animals by the end of October. The Happy Valley-Goose Bay SPCA hosts a monthly 50/50 fundraiser, and has several more events planned for the end of July and throughout August.


CBC
44 minutes ago
- CBC
I got my first tattoo at 67. Here's what I learned as a geriatric tattoo virgin
Social Sharing This is a First Person column by Lynn A. Farquhar, who lives in Greater Madawaska, Ont. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ. In 1974, when I was an insufferable 16-year-old, I told my mother that I'd decided to get a tattoo of a rose. I was planning, I said, to have it placed on my breast. To be honest, it was never a plan. Rather, it was an opening shot in the ongoing battle of wills between my mother and me. The threat of a tattoo was an in-your-face reminder that I had the autonomy to make terrible decisions I could regret and she would feel helpless to stop. To her credit, my mother didn't react with the histrionics I'd been hoping for. In fact, she didn't even look up from the crossword puzzle in her lap. From her armchair, speaking with perfect sangfroid, she said, "Rose tattoo on your breast? As you grow older, it's going to become a long-stemmed rose." It would be almost 50 years before I'd tentatively return to the idea of getting a tattoo. The inspiration came from my daughter, who had begun to accumulate a small gallery on her skin. Her first two tattoos were amateur pieces, discreetly placed on her ankle and back. I couldn't hide my dismay when I saw them, which, come to think of it, was probably the desired effect. Despite my whim to get a tattoo at age 16, I felt differently when it came to my daughter. To my eyes, she was perfect. To my eyes, her tattoos were like graffiti, impulsively thrown up against a pristine wall. Her next two tattoos were applied in parlours by artists. The quality of the designs and line work was impressive. The one on my daughter's hip especially caught my attention. When I asked her why she'd chosen to put it there, she replied, "It's a part of my body I've disliked. The tattoo makes it beautiful to me." WATCH | How the tattoo industry is changing: Tattoo artists aim to make industry more inclusive 3 years ago The emotional logic of this statement stuck. I could relate to feeling disgust for a certain part of my own body. For me, it was my right leg. From the time of my first pregnancy, at age 24, my calf had been blemished by spider veins: damaged blood vessels that lurk just beneath the skin. Although harmless, they can be as distressing as any other dermatological condition, such as acne. My spider veins took on the form of blue and red amoebae, expansive webs or dense bruises. Over the years, I spent many hundreds of dollars on sclerotherapy, playing a game of whack-a-mole with the culprit veins. A physician would inject them with an irritant that made them disappear. But no sooner would they fade than another batch would spring to vibrant life nearby. Eventually, they were joined by a thick varicose vein, which twisted down the inside of my leg like a sea serpent. In despair, and now in my 60s, I consulted surgeons. It occurred to me that perhaps having the varicose vein removed would be the equivalent of slaying a monster and her evil spawn. The first surgeon I spoke with encouraged this fantasy. He offered — for a fee of nearly $7,000 — to go in wielding a scalpel. The second surgeon, to his credit, gave me a reality check: no matter what I did, new spider veins would continue to appear. Having fought the losing battle for decades, I knew his prognosis was likely correct. It was then that I contacted a woman in Hamilton whose tattoo work struck me as being exceptional. She agreed to cover the calf on my right leg, where my skin had come to resemble the spider-like terrain of Mars. Her work would take approximately four hours. I booked the date and steeled myself. As my daughter drove me to the location, I felt much the way I had en route to the oral defence of my doctoral dissertation: dizzy, giddy and filled with nervous dread. I also felt a bit embarrassed. At 67, with inkless skin and grey hair tucked behind my hearing aids, I'd stand out as a geriatric tattoo virgin. I had no hope of blending in with the other clients. At the end of my long tattoo session, my daughter reported that people in the waiting room had referred to me as a "badass." As an introverted, apple-pie baking, bookish academic, I find this designation puzzling. Am I truly a badass? Far from it. Vain? Certainly. Peculiar? Well, maybe a little quirky. More accurately, I think I could be described as someone who quietly flips the bird at ageist stereotypes. When I look at my embellished leg, I see proof that growing old isn't a predictable paint-by-numbers template. Rather, it's an inviting blank canvas. When I look at my embellished leg, I also see something lovely — something that I chose — instead of a stretch of erratically marred skin. Before I went into the tattoo parlour, my daughter had warned me that tattoos are addictive. I'd laughed this off. Surely my ink would be a one-and-done event. But even before the end of my session, face down on the table, I was planning my next tattoo. Perhaps I can get a cross on my wrist or a Canadian flag on my shoulder. Or maybe, in commemoration of the true badass — my unflappable mother — I'll finally get that rose.


CBC
44 minutes ago
- CBC
Time to say goodbye to this 100-year-old CN Rail bridge in Ottawa
It's the end of an era for a century-old CN Rail bridge on Carling Avenue. CBC's Sannah Choi takes one final look at the infamous underpass.