Edition #179: The Day After Drowning

Reflections from the other side.

A Note From the Editor

My instinct, when something significant happens to me, is to sit on it. Sometimes I won’t even tell loved ones. These encounters are cradled to the chest, shared only with the pages of my journal. I enjoy having exclusive access to my inner world—to marinate before expelling, before taking in other opinions. My sister once said I could be secretive. I immediately recognized the truth in her observation.

The problem that arises out of this tendency is that time passes. A day, a week, a critical mass of time that need not be long at all, and then I’ve lost it. Access to the depth, the magic, the immediacy of an experience. And then maybe I’ll never write about it. And then I’m hard on myself. And then, I think, do I have to write about everything that happens to me? Is my entire experience in this lifetime for display, for sale, for the entertainment of others?

It is not; I know this. The real reason I am inclined to write about these experiences is because writing is how I make sense of things. Create some semblance of order, find meaning, receive messages from the unacknowledged parts of me.

I knew I would want to write about what happened yesterday but I didn’t think it would be today. Too fresh and I already had another, happier essay written. More holiday appropriate. But all I can think about is yesterday morning and so here I am, morning of send, still in pajamas, attempting to eat eggs, getting it all down for you. And for me.

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I had a dream a few weeks ago, over Thanksgiving. I was going on a date with a man I know in town. As I approached, he caught me in a booby trap. Imagine stepping onto a sheet, then the sheet being scooped up so you’re trapped inside it, hanging upside down by the feet. I knew I would suffocate, no air was getting in. Just relax, I told myself. Relax your limbs and let go.

I startled myself awake.
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Yesterday morning, I went out for a surf. I was trying out a friends’ board, seeing if I was ready to go down to something smaller and more challenging. I woke up at 6:15 am, decided to wear a two-piece since the sun wasn’t blazing yet, kept my nice new earrings in, slathered on sunscreen, strapped the board to my quad, drove down to the beach barefoot, buried my keys in a ziplock baggie in the sand, pet a chunky dog, waxed my board.

The waves looked nice, a little big, just after high tide. I stretched and paddled out where I always do. There were very few people in the water. The moment I reached the lineup, a guy started chatting with me. At me, more like. Where are you from, New York. Me too, also Boston, originally Rhode Island, best surf trip I’ve ever been on, waves are strong! Mhm. Ocean is crazy here, I fall down a lot. Ocean is much crazier here than where I learned to surf. On Fire Island.

Me, I do not like talking to people when I’m trying to surf. Especially not that early in the morning, especially not to a stranger who is likely going to hit on me at some point. When there was a natural pause in his monologue, I paddled off to the right, toward a section that looked nice and relatively empty. Just me and three guys.

Sat for a moment, watched the waves. Even further off to the right, a better wave. Rarely do I chase the best wave. I'm not a good enough surfer yet, but I considered it. The three guys around me each caught a wave, one by one by one. My turn. I caught a wave—didn’t stand up fast enough, but rode it in a bit. I must’ve been pulled further than I thought, miscalculated, paddled back to the wrong spot. Took me a while to get back out, ocean was strong. When I did, no one around. Couldn’t see anyone in the water in any direction. But near a nice, empty wave. Let’s fucking do it, baby. You got this. A good wave all to yourself.

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Then what? I’m not sure how it happened. I was far, far out. When you paddle out, if you’re me, you always go deeper than you should. You want to get securely past where the waves are breaking so you can regain your strength, catch your breath for a moment. Maybe I was going for a wave too soon and my foot slipped. I felt a tug on my left ankle, then nothing. Leash snapped. Board a few feet in front of me, huge wave coming from behind me. It's ok, I can reach it. I can reach it.

I swim as fast as I can toward the board. A sprint swim. Reach out, grab for the broken leash, graze the nubbed edge of it with my fingers. Before I can get a grip, the wave crashes on us. My board is gone, sucked away, and me, I’m deep in the ocean, the shore lightyears away, a big set coming in behind me.

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Last week I laid on my yoga mat on my back porch. Closed my eyes, did my usual breathwork video. It entails lots of holding your breath. On full, on empty. Sometimes you get visions behind the eyes, sometimes its colors or faces of animals. Trick is to relax your entire body. Your body wants to panic, to fight, but if you let go, you can hold on much longer than you think.

I do this every day, mostly. This day was different. I was lying on my mat and then I was back in that dream, or something like it. I was being buried. Not under dirt but under heavy cloth, piles of it, airways obstructed. Suffocating, again. And again, that surprising sense of calm washed over me. It’s OK. Don’t be afraid. Don't resist. Just relax.

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My instincts and logic meet one another. Bobbing in the ocean, swallowing and swallowing salt water, trying to stay above the surface. Call for help, scream for help, you need help or you won’t make it back. No, there is no one around. You won’t be able to yell loud enough for anyone to hear you. Conserve the energy you have left. A wave slams into my head.

I am trying to swim to shore but it is so far away. Little strength remains. Not enough to properly swim so I’m doggy padding, gasping for air, gulping water. Another wave, now I’m being pulled deeper into the ocean. The first phase of drowning is “struggle to keep the airway clear of the water.” A subtle transition from swimming to struggling to keep the airway clear of the water, which are two distinct things. In instinctive drowning response: no calling or waving for help. Airway repeatedly submerged, upright body, horizontal arm movements underwater. Can’t break the arms up over the surface anymore. Going under, coming up, under and up. Under and under. Shore so far away.

In a study observing videos of people drowning, the authors identified a series of complex visible behaviors exhibited by those drowning. The duration of the visible behaviors above water, until they spontaneously stopped, ranged from 76 to 96 seconds.

All persons drown within two minutes.

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Can I tell you something? A part of me knew the leash would snap that morning. The information didn’t reach my conscious mind, just an echo. After sunscreen, before keys in ignition. I attached the leash to the board. Gave it a good yank to ensure it was secure. Then, wouldn’t it suck if this thing detached? So quick, so quiet.

A friend’s board, so maybe nothing but a natural worry. Wouldn’t want to lose a board that wasn’t mine. Or maybe, a warning. Learn to listen.

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I have nothing more to give. Legs not working, arms not working. Can’t breathe. Go under, just for a moment. Relax.

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Don’t remember making the decision to flip over. On my back, looking at the sky, floating. Kind of nice out here. Can take a few gulps of air before the water washes over my face. Can plug nose. The ingenuity of human fingers.

Body relaxes. Breathing air. Sky is perfect blue.

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Collapse on shore. On my back again. Panting. Blue sky. Should try to find the board but first, need to remember how to breathe.

No one on the beach but one girl, sunbathing, some ways away. Have you seen a surfboard? That one? She points. Right at the shoreline, there it is, waiting for me. Broken leash still attached to my left ankle. Jog over and grab it before it is pulled back out to sea. When I can breathe again, I wonder if this girl saw me drowning, bobbing, trying to stay alive. Wonder what thoughts passed through her mind when she saw the abandoned surfboard, its snapped leash. Wonder if she thought, huh, maybe someone’s out there. Would make sense, given the surfboard and all. Maybe someone needs help. Current’s pretty strong today.

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Later, you think about it all. How it would’ve went down. You didn’t tell anyone you were surfing this morning. It is such a part of your daily routine now, doesn’t feel worth sharing. Laura would have been the first to realize you were missing. You see each other nearly every day, usually for a sunset walk. She would text you, no reply because you leave your phone at home while surfing. You wonder how long it would've been until she would be worried. Five hours, at least. Maybe more. At some point, she would drive up the hill to your house. Her boyfriend would have to jump the rock wall. No quad parked out front, now they start to worry.

Eventually, they find the quad on your beach. Parked, key hiding in the sand. Maybe you’re at the beach, they figure. But hours pass. Maybe, you hope, your body is recovered. Wearing your new earrings, a bikini. Laura will tell Holly first, the news spreads to New York. Holly has to break it to your family. She tells Erin first. Your mom's worst fear realized. All her warnings like accidental prayers. You have to stop yourself there.

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And then you think about logistics. Your first short film would come out posthumously, and the subject matter would be a comfort to those people you love, you think. At home, you thumb through your brown leather journal, the yellow legal pad you scribble a few words on before bed to get them out of your head. You re-read the lines like they were written by a stranger, looking for meaning, for clues as to how you spent your last days alive.

Would your bank account funds be disbursed, and to whom? Does anyone know your phone password? You hope so, though there’s nothing interesting to find there. The good stuff is in the notebooks.

The strangest part is that it would all be so casual. Just a Wednesday, like any other Wednesday. You would quietly and unceremoniously exit this world. Now you see her, now you don’t. You hope your family would fly to Costa Rica, get to experience this place, pack up your things, see how you lived, that you were happy.

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You were right there. At the edge of it.

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Cheers my dears and thank you deeply for making the space for me to work through all of life’s wild, poetic, beautiful, sad, and weird shit with the witness of this intimate audience. It feels like a warm, worn sweater.

This newsletter taught me how to be vulnerable. It keeps teaching me. So I want to thank you immensely for your support. It’s no small thing. I am happy to be alive and I am happy you’re alive, too. Let’s try to get the most of this ride while we can.

Have a beautiful weekend. I am not making plans, just going to listen to my body and do as it says. Today it says, be alone. Silence. Tomorrow, let’s see. I hope to swim in the ocean at some point in the coming days. I hope to go for another surf, friends in tow, at the most crowded spot I can find. If someone tries to start a conversation with me out there, I will smile and talk back.

Take a long bath. Cry it out. Dessert in bed. A comedy special. Bare feet. Birdsong. Naps. Someone plays with your hair. Feeling moved. Expensive incense lit all day. Texting first. Open windows.

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Three Pieces of Content Worth Consuming

1. We Didn’t Know It Was the Last Time. Warning, there’s a good chance you will audibly sob. I did the first time I read this last year. Re-read it today and it hit harder. An important reminder.

2. Father and Son: A Photo Series. I could spend hours looking at these photos, in which the photographer captures a grown son holding hands with his father, sometimes for the first time in many years. The intimacy, the framing, the backgrounds, the clothing, the expressions that tell hours and hours worth of stories without a single word. These photos are exquisite and strangely heartbreaking—and also, heartwarming. I’d love to see this series across America.

3. How The Irish Came To Rule Pop Culture. A writer referenced in this article says the general consensus is that the Irish are “hot and sad.” I concur. I’ve been reading more work by Irish authors this year, including this dark, Booker Prize-winning novel. There’s also this hilarious dark comedy series, which I have yet to watch the second season of, and this underrated feel-good film. And of course, there’s Rooney, Mescal, Ronan, Farrell, the list goes on. The Irish are the anti-imperialists underdogs with a grueling history of famine, poverty, hard times all around. Makes for good people and a good sense of humor, if you ask me.

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Perhaps You Should… Watch A Beautiful Series

You might recall me raving about the Neapolitan Quartet, a series of four novels by Elena Ferrante about two girls and their complex, lifelong friendship. The novels played a primary role in my life this past fall as I worked my way through them in succession. It’s been a long time since I was so deeply touched by an inter-character dynamic, so moved by the complex inner world of a protagonist that felt, at times, painfully familiar.

I didn’t have high hopes for the HBO series—being a lifelong reader means anticipating an underwhelming on-screen adaptation—but this show has blown me away thus far. The casting is impeccable. The cinematography is pure beauty, some of the best I’ve ever seen on TV. And most significantly, the show has yet to take any shortcuts in telling the story in all its fullness. Subtle moments from the novels are honored, no matter how seemingly small. The director took his time and it shows.

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**Bonus Content** (Kenny From Hinge)

I’ve been crying a lot and this made me audibly cackle like the witch I am. Pro tip: watch/read funny stuff when you’re sad, not sad stuff. What a concept! Speaking of funny stuff, I watched Paul Mescal on SNL and didn’t realize how hot and wonderful he is.

Also, I don’t generally do dairy, but I’m going to make an exception for this dreamy, kind of sexy dessert. If I were in New York I’d buy tickets to this—best experiential theatre in the city. This song is a standout on an exceptional new album by an artist of the highest degree. If you surf, read this. Let’s all vow to be more prepared. Putting myself first in line there.

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A Quote From A Book You Should Read:

“Unlike stories, real life, when it has passed, inclines towards obscurity, not clarity. I thought: now that Lila has let herself be seen so plainly, I must resign myself to not seeing her anymore.”

-The Story of the Lost Child by Elena Ferrante

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