It was 1959, under a sky dappled with clouds, when I spent a carefree afternoon at the beach with my aunt Dorothy, cousins, brother George, and mom.

The waves’ rhythm, the sand’s warmth, and the promise held by the distant horizon enchanted me. As George and I strolled along the shoreline, we searched for seashells and driftwood treasures. I glanced down, mesmerized by the frothy seafoam swirling around my ankles as the tide rolled in with quiet grace.

I closely watched the shoreline, hoping the waves might reveal a hidden treasure just for me. George lingered a few steps ahead, scanning the surf.

And then—everything changed.

A wall of water crashed over me, knocking the wind from my small body as the undertow seized me without mercy.

I broke the surface once—just enough to steal a single breath—before being swallowed again by the churning sea.

A second surge pushed me upward; I gasped, eyes wide with panic, before being dragged down once more.

The third time I rose, the air barely grazed my lips before the ocean pulled me under again. Submerged in darkness and chaos, something inside me ignited.

The fear didn’t vanish—it transformed. I was fragile yet fiercely alive, and I decided I would not be taken without a fight.

I completely lost it—I threw a tantrum right then and there. I started yelling at God, furious.

“Like, seriously? I’m only six! I haven’t even lived yet, and this is how it ends? You’re taking me now?”

Beneath the surface, I felt myself split in two. Part of me was still the terrified six-year-old, flailing in panic.

Another part—older, calmer—hovered just behind my right shoulder, watching it all unfold.

I could see and feel the moment with startling clarity through this adult self’s eyes.

It was as if grown-up Doretta was quietly witnessing the child version of myself in full rebellion—throwing a tantrum, shouting at God, demanding to know why my life was being cut short. The adult version of myself seemed amused by the child’s fiery protest.

The strange dual awareness unsettled me—how could I simultaneously be both the frightened little girl and the calm, observing adult?

Then, a woman spoke from somewhere nearby—not aloud, but directly into my mind.

I couldn’t see her, yet the message was clear and steady:

“If God is taking you now, there’s no need to be afraid. You might as well surrender to it—there’s surely a reason.”

The words soothed me almost instantly. The fear that had gripped my heart just moments before dissolved, replaced by an unexpected sense of peace.

Then, the voice gently redirected my focus, urging me to notice the beauty surrounding me. Looking upward, I saw three beams of sunlight streaming through the pale green water, casting shimmering patterns that sparkled like diamonds in the sea’s quiet depths. The ocean began to unveil its hidden world.

Countless tiny particles drifted through the water, each as intricate and unique as a snowflake.

In that moment, I understood—the sea wasn’t just home to the great creatures of myth and science, but to entire microcosms of life, invisible to most, yet teeming with energy and purpose. My body swayed gently, moving in harmony with these delicate life forms, as if I, too, belonged to the ocean’s elegant design.

Then the voice returned, calm and knowing:

“The ocean is a feminine force—vast, powerful, and often misunderstood. Humanity tends to overlook her true nature—her ability to create and destroy.”

While I couldn’t completely comprehend the meaning of the words, I could feel their truth in the water’s immense presence.

Surrounded by the ocean’s energy, I imagined the countless sea creatures inhabiting this mysterious, living world beneath the surface. Moments later, a mighty wave surged beneath me, carrying me upward and hurling me toward the shore.

I slammed into the wet sand, the jolt reverberating through my small frame—then, at last, I gasped for air, my lungs aching for breath.

In that moment, I felt my mother’s hands on my shoulders, steady and sure, pulling me back to life.

It was the first of several times my mother would appear during my near-death experiences—a silent guardian standing at the threshold between worlds.

That experience taught me that true peace begins the moment you surrender to God—it’s like stepping into a realm more beautiful and serene than anything you could ever imagine.

Life moved forward—and just three years later, my mother was gone. And in 1969, at the age of 16, I faced my second near-death experience.