When I was fifteen years old, the summer between ninth and tenth grade, my father’s job put us in Hawaii for a few months. A restaurant man by trade, general manager Pops was tasked to turn around a failing location of Matteo’s. I was stoked that sun, surf, buds, and island girls were calling. Life had a darker plan for me.
The first part of the trip was full of fun and adventure. I had worked at Mateo’s as a dishwasher and sometimes pantry chef. But I had decided to cut and run when Pops left town to rendezvous with his mistress. My intention was to catch a plane that coming Friday, then sell smuggled sticky Hawaiian buds to my friends back in Los Angeles.
Monday afternoon, I caught a downtown bus to grab my final paycheck. It was far less tense with Pops away, so I hung out long enough to burn a few bowls and shoot the shit with the kitchen guys. In case he had a spy, I didn’t mention to anyone that I was cutting out of town at the end of the week.
It was a good day. The jock itch that plagued me for five uncomfortable, bow-legged-when-no-one-was-looking days had cleared up, allowing me to once again walk without fiery discomfort. Jonelle would never notice what time I got in, so I planned on staying out all night long. I hit Waikiki to play some pool, drink lots of beer, and whoop it up. As I racked up the billiard balls, “Dance the Night Away” blasted from the jukebox. Right about then, I actually felt a twinge of guilt, because I had told Pops I’d be nice to Jonelle while he out of town. Besides, that pool hall was a total sausage fest, so I split after a few games.
Pro Tip: Click the Pictures
I got home just past seven to find Jonelle passed out exhausted on her bed. You ladies with toddlers know the feeling. After a bowl of hash on the balcony, I went inside to watch Rat Patrol. But for some reason, it wasn’t on TV. My guitar was across the ocean, so I couldn’t blast away my clouds of boredom. I grabbed a Playboy to catch up on some bathroom reading, and enjoyed some interesting articles, twice. But it was still far too early to crash out, and I regretted leaving the pool hall. I called my buddy Dick, grabbed a six-pack, and headed to his apartment.
When I got there, all he really wanted was a gram of hash fronted before he went to meet a chick. I was pissed he didn’t mention on the phone that he would be leaving, so I lied, “Sorry, bra. I left it at home.”
I took my six-pack (and hash) to a table poolside at our condo, cracked open a brew, and downed it in three gulps, then started on a second. About half an hour later, I felt like a swim and hung my shirt on a chair before diving in. I counted out twenty laps, then hit the hot tub to relax.
After stewing to almost overheated, a gentle rain began and I decided to have another beer. Shortest route is a straight line, so I went to the edge of the Jacuzzi to swim across and grab one. While I stood on the ledge three feet above the pool’s surface, an extremely fit, French-bikini-wearing blond caught my eye. I paused, hoping she’d turn my way so I could check her rack. Somebody’s boombox began blasting “Eruption,” and I launched head first toward my beer. From hot to cold, what a rush.
My forehead slammed onto the pool’s hard concrete floor, which set off a brilliant flash of light behind my eyeballs. From surfers’ stories, often repeated on the beach, I figured I was about to knock out and drown. “This must be that split-second right before lights out,” I thought.
X Marks the Spot
It didn’t even take a moment for me to realize I wasn’t going to lose consciousness. Relieved, I tried to swim, but couldn’t move my arms. “Fuck, shit, fuck,” I thought to myself, “I broke my fucking neck.” In an instant, the control freak was rendered helpless. Talk about some fucked-up shit.
After a nanosecond of initial panic, I had no fear whatsoever, just waiting, waiting – holding my breath – staying calm while thinking about stuff. There were plenty of people around. Surely someone would notice a motionless kid face down in the water. After a few minutes alone with my thousand scattered thoughts, I faced the obvious. No one was coming to my rescue.
I held on a moment longer to wonder what my friends would think when they heard I died.
Time was up. Unable to hold my breath any longer, and not wanting to prolong the agony, I decided to draw in the biggest, deepest, lungs-full-of-water breath physically possible. I held on a moment longer to wonder what my friends would think when they heard I died. Would anyone really care? Billy Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young” played in my head, and I went for it. I didn’t fuck around either, and after forcefully expelling all the air from my lungs I sucked in deep and fast.
At that very moment, somebody rolled me face up. I could not feel their touch, and thought I must have somehow righted myself, so began gasping repeatedly, “Help, help, help.”
I heard a voice say, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
Even though there are no signs, across the way I heard “You Really Got Me” finishing up on the boombox. Thankfully, Van Halen songs are very short. If I was under for two Allman Brothers songs, I would have been a goner.
Spoiler alert – I didn’t die. No idea why. Guess I’m no good.
A little preoccupied at the time, I don’t believe I ever thanked the dude who saved me. Thanks!!!
My rescuer wanted to lift me from the pool, but my pre-lifeguard training kicked in and I took control: “Wait, I broke my neck,” and “less movement is the best thing for my type of injury.”
I asked for a deck chair to be brought into the pool, laid in the flat position, slid underneath me, and four guys to lift me smooth and level from the pool. I stressed the utter importance of keeping me flat, while avoiding exaggerated or jerky movements.
Before I knew it, the guys had done as requested. I lay poolside on a lawn chair, shivering, teeth chattering, with a broken fucking neck.
A fair-sized crowd gathered round, some gawking, others interested in finding out if there was anything they could do for me. Someone went to tell Jonelle that I had stubbed my toe, quite badly. I told a man about my beers sitting on the picnic table, and asked him to “Go grab one for me, crack it open, and pour it down my throat.”
He said, “You don’t need one of those right now.”
“That’s exactly what I need right now,” I disagreed.
But he wouldn’t budge.
Some old guy worked his way to me and started doing chest compressions. I told him, “I didn’t drown. I broke my fucking neck.”
“It’s all right, I’m a doctor,” he said.
I let him know that he needed to get the fuck away from me. It turned out that he was a dentist, and against my clear instructions had rolled up a towel, lifted my head, and placed it underneath as a pillow. I sometimes wonder if his well-meaning stupidity caused more paralysis than was necessary. Whatever, it’s not his fault that I broke my fucking neck.
After paramedics arrived, they threw on one of those cervical collars, slid a backboard underneath, and then strapped me down. They were lifting me onto a gurney just as Jonelle arrived.
To the ambulance, and soon enough onto the highway to set sail at freeway speed toward Straub Hospital. I requested lights and sirens, but was told, “Your injury isn’t life threatening, so we can’t.”
I bitched slightly, “But I broke my fucking neck, how about just the lights?”
It was not my first, or last, trip to an emergency room. But that night I was the center of attention. As the doctors, nurses, and the rest of the care-crew swarmed me, I thought that they would have run the lights and sirens; just saying.
The only limb that I could move was my left arm, ever so slightly, but couldn’t move my hand or fingers.
My Quicksilver board shorts got cut off, which bummed me out because I paid twenty-five bucks for them. Someone asked me to move my toes, then on the other foot. I tried, but couldn’t. The only limb that I could move was my left arm, ever so slightly, but couldn’t move my hand or fingers.
After some small talk, I felt like getting high, so complained of pain. A nurse placed a couple pills on my tongue, and some water to wash them down. Kind of like junkie communion, followed by a lovely kick-to-the-head pain shot that had me buzzing sweetly by the time the X-rays were developed.
The doctor informed me that I had suffered a compression fracture to the fifth and sixth vertebrae of my cervical spine: a broken fucking neck. Gee, who knew? Even though I couldn’t move, and my body felt pins-and-needles tingly-numb all over, laying there higher than a kite while looking up at blurry lights, I was positive I’d be on my feet again in no time flat.
