Floating

Thank God the panic isn’t as intense as when I first fell in. The boat floated away so fast! I’ll never catch it. Michael Phelps could. Not 70-year-old me. This evening chop is better than big waves. But I do wish I was floating on it, not in it. It’ll probably calm down soon. I didn’t feel like I sank very deep. What a surprise. A surprise polar plunge. I definitely gasped when I hit the cold water and gulped some in, just like they talk about in boating safety classes. Water is still pouring out of me nose. It’s so salty and bitter.

How stupid that I thrashed like someone who doesn’t what to do. Ha. Barbara would sock me in the jaw like we pretended to do in high school lifeguard lessons. A panicked drowning person can sink you both; sock ‘em in the jaw and pull them to the dock from behind. Hand on chin.

Wow. This water is icy. It definitely wakes a person up! Glad I didn’t open the wine before going to get the crab pot. Oh, yeah! Those crabs are happily dining on raw chicken necks in my crab pot at the bottom of Puget Sound.

I just have to get a grip on my emotions and do what I know. I literally could back-float for days if needed. If I relax and let my legs float in front of me, I’ll be horizontal on the water. It seems like my prosthetic left leg helps my buoyancy instead of weighing me down. I won’t unhook it. I’d hate to lose it, and it’d be too hard to take off. Gad, I didn’t even zip or snap the clasps of my life jacket. Too hard to zip now, but these claps are snapping and will keep life jacket on me.

How the heck did this happen?! Epecially to me, of all people. I fell out of the dang boat. I know better. I’m a safety nut.

Oh, great, it looks like thunderheads forming south of here. But the sky is blue. It seems like a nice day, but the choppy water could have gotten worse if I had waited for Alexi and the twins before getting the crab pot. Maybe the thunderheads are all show, no rain or wind. Funny to float in a Christ-on-a-cross position. My Biblical boating accident.

My eyelashes feel stuck together in salty clumps. They, the tip of my nose and cheeks form a frame as I look up into the blue sky and float. I’m glad I’m so paranoid about losing my glasses in the water. The safety strap performed perfectly. They’re still on my face. Hard to see through the water drops. Salty water drops. Right. It’s not enough that I didn’t lose my glasses. I’d like them dry and spot-free, please. OK, I’m scared but not panicked like I was at first. I’m kinda sick-to-my-stomach scared, but not frantic or in-a-panic scared like I was when I first flipped out of the boat. I know better than to lean over the side to pull up a crab pot.

Damn it. Damn it. I can’t believe this happened. What’s the fastest way out of this bleeping, freezin’ water? All my training and experience are for naught.

Dad, I see you standing on shore waving us in when we were young. Something is wrong, you’re waving and motioning us to come in, but we can’t hear you. We finally turn around in our pram to see a black, windy storm rolling fast off the glacier that feeds the lake. I’ve never seen the front line of a storm before. Nasty white caps, all in a line, are racing toward us. The pram is rocking and waves are splashing. We’ve never been in rough water alone. We try to steady ourselves as we struggle to get the oars back in the oar locks. Barb and I were dinking around, each of us with an oar, pretending to paddle a canoe. We focus and the oars clunk as they finally slip into the slot. We don’t even discuss who will row. Barb, younger than I, but a strong athlete, rows hard. Luckily the wind is headed to the same shore we are. Dad, anxiously waiting, tells my little brother to stay back. He wades into the lake, grabs the bow and pulls us the last couple feet to shore. We laugh with relief that we’re safe. The storm blows through fairly fast. The campfire flames light our faces that night as we tell and retell the story of our boat ride.

Dad taught us well. But what about a big tide like I’m in now? It’s sucking me into the Straights. I’m heading into the shipping lanes. This is the big time. Why didn’t you teach me about this? Lake Wenatchee didn’t have shipping lanes. Nor Lake Goodwin. My beach house looks so far away. Dang it. I’ll be in Victoria by the time Alexi and the girls get here. Or there. This is ridiculous. This can’t be me. I’m so careful. Usually.

Darn it. I’m shaking. It’s just shock. Yeah, just. I haven’t been in the water long enough for my body temp to drop. I’ll back float for a few minutes and calm down. It makes me think of all those swimming lessons at Lake Stevens. All the childhood stuff. Best friends Janet and Julie. Larry and Barb venturing out too far. Swimming and swimming. Water-logged skinny little kids. Mom was smart to insist we know how to swim. She didn’t know how herself, but she made sure her kids and grandkids did. It was a main theme in her life. A swim-lesson crusader. “Too many kids drown in irrigation ditches.” Irrigation ditches were part of her Montana upbringing.

Hmmm. It’s like I’m a floating cross. Ironic that floating in this position is how I used to reduce stress from work. I wish I was floating offshore at Auntie Donna’s. Lahaina’s water temperature must be twice that of Puget Sound. But then I’d have to worry about sharks. Ok, then I wish I was floating in Auntie Donna’s pool.

Take a deep breath. Reach deep, fill my lungs. SSSHHHHH, exhale with my diaphragm. Inhale…exhale… Ha, my new invention, back-floating yoga. It’s actually helping. Inhale…SSSSHHH. Inhale…SSSSSHHHHH. Again, suck it in deep inside. SSSSSHHHHH. Be calm. Be calm. That’s better.

I wish I could remember what percentage of the human body is water. Ha. Here I am, water in the form of flesh, bone and blood with innards that are filled with water. Am I more than 100 percent water? Yuk. My stomach feels so full and queasy. RRUP! Water and bile. Crap. No, not crap. Just barf. Retching hurts and ruins my back float. Ugh, here comes more. RRUP! At least it’s easy to rinse my life jacket off. How revolting. Interesting concept, though, water giveth and water taketh away. Same with fire, I guess.

Well, that was a setback. I should have called for help before I barfed. Note to self. Always call 911 before wasting time barfing. I can’t even see the boat anymore and there’s no way I can swim to shore. Even if I was young again. Well, maybe I could if Barb swam with me. She was so strong. Even so, Uncle Dean rowed beside us when we swam across D Lake in Oregon when she was fourteen and I was fifteen. I can still feel the amazement I felt when she stayed in the water and swam back, while cousin Steve and I rode in the boat. The lake water was warm and cousin John was still alive. We all hated—he, most of all—that his heart was too weak for him to swim with us. Our moms tried to cheer us up and grilled shish kabobs for dinner. We thought that was cool.

Damn it. Pay attention, Claire. Unclip the phone dry-pouch from your life jacket. Lucky, I bought this dry pouch. I can even dial while the phone’s still inside the plastic, nice and dry. Well, theoretically. My fingers are shaky. How many times do I have to hit “9” before it takes? Nine. Nope. Nine. Nope. NINE. Click! One. One. It’s ringing! Alexi is going to kill me. Instead of surprising her with dinner already cooked, I’m out here drowning. I shouldn’t say that. It’s not funny. This is serious. I’m in trouble.

This life jacket is a kick. I thought the whistle was overkill when I bought it. The twins love blowing it. Too bad it’s a weekday in March and the neighbor’s houses still locked up for the winter. Hey, I have a whistle for emergencies. WHIRRRL. WHHIIRRRRL. It’s a lonesome whistle. Like our resident loon that hangs out offshore. I think he’s a widower. There used to be two. Now it’s a singular loon, lonesome and calling. No one answers.

Hey, what’s for dinner? Lemons, parsley, butter and…saltwater. Oh, yeah, and a nice Pinot Grigio. Chilled. Lemon butter. Melted. Oh, and there’s dessert, too…a pocket-full of kelp. And a whistle for ambiance instead of Ted playing acoustic guitar.

Thank God I had my life vest on. It and my phone would still be in my dinghy floating out to the Pacific if I hadn’t slipped my arms through it before picking up the oars. I’m so glad it wasn’t one of the times I just threw it in the boat. I know that life jackets don’t work unless you’re wearing them. That will be my absolute rule from now on, I promise. I will always put it on and zip it up, even for quick trips to the crab pot.

The cell service is so shitty out here. Maybe I’ll hit it lucky. Yeah, of course, can’t you see, it’s my lucky day? I do hear it ringing and ringing. Maybe it’s the emergency service that is shitty out here. Maybe nobody’s there to hear it ring. Maybe I’m not ringing the dispatcher. I don’t dare hang up and try again.

Alexi and the girls are probably crossing Deception Pass about now. I’ll be another 45 minutes before they get to the house. She is going to be so mad at me. I broke my own safety rule and my promise to her that I will always tell someone and wear my life jacket when I take the boat out alone. She’s always been a worrier. I raised her right. But she’s reached new heights of worry since my amputation. Getting rid of the bum leg actually feels better. No pain in my plastic leg. That’s an advantage when you’re drifting into the Straits of Juan de Fuca in 46-degree water and about to be run over by a container ship from Japan the size of three football fields. Your plastic leg isn’t cold, and it helps one to stay afloat.

I don’t know if she believes me when I explain that I’m more stable when I walk because I’m pain free. My right thigh and calf muscles are much stronger, too, from all the physical therapy. It was a good decision. A relief to get rid of it. The bum left leg.

I wish the tide wasn’t racing like this. It’s a total waste to try to swim against it. I’ll just poop out. And the exertion won’t warm me. In fact, the brochure with my new life vest said to curl into a ball and conserve body heat. Don’t swim. How the heck is anyone going to see me? No one is around, and, of course, I got the fashionable aqua-and-blue life vest, and I’m curled into a ball. I’ll just blend in. The orange life vests weren’t attractive. Yeah, that’s one of the important things to consider when buying a life jacket. Is it fashionably on trend?

“This is 911, what is your emergency?”

“Oh, my goodness. My phone works! I’m so embarrassed. I fell out of my little boat while pulling in the crab pot.”

“Ma’am, what is your location? Do not hang up. What is your location?”

“Well, the tide is pulling me into the straits. My summer house is on West Beach Road.”

“Ma’am, what is your exact address and name?”

“Fourteen West Beach Road. I’m Claire Johnson. If you know where Senator Murray and her husband live, my place is about a mile south of them.”

“Whidbey Island?”

“Yes.”

“Claire, you’re in the water, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a life vest on?”

“Yes, but it’s the blue one. I hate the orange one. How will anyone slee me?”

“Claire, we will find you. How far are you from shore?”

“A long way. Too far to sllwim, and the tide is pulling me out to those strong currents.”

“Tell me what land can you see?”

“Just the beach and all the empty houses. No one’s home this time of shlear.”

“Can you see Fort Casey or Ebby’s Prairie? Can you see a town?”

“Yes, I can see Fort Casey but it’s far away. I can see Port Townslend when I turn. I’m sorry my teeth are chattering so loud. I mean sloudly.”

“Claire, you’re doing great. Help is on the way. Just relax and hang onto your phone. Is it hooked to your vest?”

“My hands don’t work. It was like little knives in my fingertips. They quit hurting and are just numb. But my dang teeth won’t quit chattering. Good that my sleg is amputated so it’s not cold.”

“Ma’am, are you injured?”

“Yes, my pride. I shouldn’t be here. I have sea slegs. I mean one sea leg. One got mangled in a car wreck. Do you know container shlips come through here at 23 knots? How will they slee me in my blue vest floating out here?”

“Ma’am, help is on the way. Can you see any boats or a helicopter? The Naval Air Station and the Coast Guard are sending help. Even the State Ferry that’s leaving from Port Townsend can help.”

“AUUUUUHHH! A boat is roaring straight at me. It’s targeting me. It’ll hit me…my vlue best…”

“Ma’am, ma’am…?”

“Whoa! Thank God, it stopped. It’s a big boat with people”

“HELLO!” A voice calls from the boat. “Are you Claire? Looks like you need a lift.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Yeah, I need help. I thought you were going to plow over me. I’m out too far to swim.”

What a handsome man. Long, thick, gray hair. His voice is so nice. He must be Native American. He has such a gentle voice, even when he’s calling out to me over the sound of the boat’s engine. No edges or boom to his voice. It’s round and smooth. Low and gentle.

“No more swimming for you, Claire. We just caught some fish and now we are going to catch you.”

SPLAAASHSHS.

“Whoa! You jumped into the water with your clothes on!”

“Yes. You’re not exactly dressed for a swim either. You’re doing great ma’am, just relax. We’ll get you out of this ice bath.”

“Thank you. Don’t sock me in the jaw. I won’t slhrash. Or slrash. Sorry, I can’t talk. My teeth won’t quiiiittt cha-t-t-t-er-ing.”

“Just relax. Zach will lift you on the boat’s back platform. We’ll wrap you in a down sleeping bag and get you a cup of tea. You can sit by our heater. We have twin 350 hp engines that will get you home fast.”

“My daughter is going to kill me. Am I slurring? I didn’t open the wine before I left. I didn’t lose my sleg or my glasses. We don’t have anything for dinner or I’d invite you.”

Wooooh, I’m so drowsy. How impolite if I fall asleep before I have a cup of tea. But I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.

Author: Carolyn Duncan