The Knock Down
By: Melinda Crow
Tags: Fiction, Outdoors, Suspense Fiction, Adventure, Ninjabyob

Fiction

The Knock Down

The question is always, “How the heck do you get back up after a bad fall?”

Bonaire Photo by Gary Crow

She would later tell authorities she never felt an impact. It was only the shock of pain as her left shoulder separated and the salty grit of the sand and seawater flooding her mouth as the wave sucked away from the shore. Another inbound hammer followed, pounding her, lifting her off the bottom for less than a blink. Before the next one barreled shoreward, she struggled to pull her knees under her in spite of the weight of the scuba gear on her back.

It occurred to her that she might die. Right then. On this dark beach surrounded by other divers.

One breath. Finally. Hold your head up, she told herself. “Shoulder! My shoulder is out.” Did she shout? Did anybody hear? Where was Drew?

The next wave lifted her off her knees, erasing her hard-fought gain. The tank valve bumped the back of her head just before her face went in the water again, shins banging the rocks jutting from the sand.

Crap! was all she could think. Or maybe she said it out loud. Her right hand searched for the plastic buckle on the front of the left weight pouch on her BCD. She found and clicked the latch but there was no immediate relief from the weight bearing down on her. The lead cube must be wedged in place, out of gravity’s reach. She fumbled for the release on the shoulder strap. If I can free one arm, maybe I can ditch the BC and tank. I’m never going to be able to stand in these waves. Her fingers struggled to find the clasp as she lifted upward again.

Thinking she was in yet another wave plowing toward shore, she clicked the release as her toes found a purchase amid the tumbling rocks. Her legs wobbled, weak beneath her. As the water rolled back out to sea, she worked to plant her feet.

Drew was on her left side. He had her by the tank valve, with the divemaster lifting upward from the bottom of the tank as they guided her over the last of the rocks at the shore and onto smoother sand. She could barely put one foot in front of the other, but they propelled her forward.

Fifteen more feet and they spun her butt toward the truck and seating her on the tailgate. Drew was talking, but she couldn’t follow. He sat beside her and wiggled free of his own BC, tank and weight belt. The divemaster disappeared from view.

She coughed and spat a tiny bit of rock from her tongue. “My left shoulder. My shoulder is out.”

“What happened? One minute you were between me and the divemaster, then that wave rolled in and you disappeared. Here, rinse your mouth,” Drew held a two-liter water bottle to her lips. She swished the water around and spat again.

The divemaster reappeared, stripped of his gear and wetsuit, and trying to assess her injuries. “Your shoulder may be dislocated. Can you wiggle your fingers?”

The fog in her head was beginning to clear. Who is this guy? First, he insisted the night dive was safe, even though the surge was ripping when they went in an hour ago, and now he’s not listening to a thing I say. And trying to play EMT?

“Yes,” Jordan waved five fingers at him. “and I’m sure it dislocated. I felt it.” She looked down, realizing something was missing. “My fins. Crap. I lost my fins.”

“He’s trying to help,” Drew whispered in her ear before turning to look for her fins. “Did you have ’em clipped to your BC?”

“Have you dislocated your shoulder before?” the divemaster asked.

Jordan ignored the question. Clearly he never has; it’s kind of an unmistakable sensation.

“Let’s take that tank off your back and decide whether or not you can move your arm.”

She flinched away from the divemaster at the mere thought of maneuvering her shoulder out of the gear. “No, the clip broke yesterday,” she told Drew. “I had the straps around my wrist.”

She glanced sideways at the divemaster who waited patiently for her to allow his help with the BC. “The fins may have twisted in the waves, which would torque your shoulder,” he said.

Well, that settles it, Dr. Doug the Divemaster, Jordan thought to herself before she politely asked him to unbuckle the shoulder release on her right side as she struggled with the Velcro cummerbund around her waist.

“Ow!” Every move vibrated through her shoulder, but she was now free from the gear.

“Can you stand?”

Drew returned with two blue fins. “Floating right at the edge. Wait, let me help,” he said as he rushed to Jordan’s side.

With his support on her right side, Jordan wobbled on spaghetti legs, then stood next to the tailgate.

“Good. I don’t think you need an ambulance, but I should see you to the ED.” He turned to Drew, “Do you know where the hospital is, or should I lead in my truck?”

Jordan wiggled her fingers, then attempted to raise her arm a bit. “I think I can move it. The pain’s not as bad as before.”

“Can you raise your arm?” Divemaster Doug, or whatever his name is, demonstrated as she followed suit.

“I can.”

“Good. The joint may have slipped back into place without the weight of the BCD and tank.”

Drew was skeptical. “I’m thinking we should still head to the hospital.”

“No. I’m fine. Really. I’ll ice it down and take some Advil.”

“Are you sure, hon?”

“I’ll be okay.”

The divemaster turned to Drew and the two men shook hands. “Okay. I’ll be heading out, then.”

“Thank you. It was a good dive, until the end, anyway,” Drew said with a quick glance at Jordan. “Those morays. Wow.” When Jordan didn’t add her own thanks, he nodded in her direction with a raise of his brow.

“They hunt at night. It’s incredible to see so many free-swimming like that, no?”

“Well, thanks again.”

“You’re welcome. And put some ice on that shoulder.”

Jordan turned away, pretending not to catch Drew’s meaning. I’ll be damned if I’m thanking the twit. These Dutch guys are such know-it-alls. And she didn’t want to say anything, but the eels had scared the bejeezus out of her. Creepy was the word running through her mind every time they spotted another one worming their way over the dark reef. It was like a haunted house. And she hated haunted houses. One more reason to never do another night dive, she thought.

As she turned back toward Drew, stabs of pain shot through her shoulder again. She winced and sat back down on the tailgate. “Wait. My mask was on my other wrist. Damn it.”

Ever the patient soul, Drew sighed with her. “Let me find the lights and we’ll go looking. Or I can. You should just sit here.”

“No. I’m fine. Find two and we’ll both look. I love that mask. Coulda used a new pair of fins, but the mask is almost new.”

Drew dug around in the pocket of his BCD and found the two lights he had taken on the dive. “I’m gonna take a sec to rinse the camera gear before we go looking. I almost forgot about it.” He fumbled for a minute with her BC, still strapped to her tank in the back of the truck. “I always forget that yours doesn’t have pockets. Where are your lights?”

“You weren’t close by so I handed them off to the divemaster before we got to shore. He must still have them. Damn. I’m sorry.”

“No problem. We’ll catch up with him at the dive shop in the next day or two. Not like he’s gonna pawn them somewhere on an island flush with scuba gear. Right?”

“K. Is there any warm water?” Even with the air temp around eighty-five, Jordan was feeling the chill from the wetsuit and the lack of sunshine for warmth.

“We do. Want me to pour some over your head?” Drew retrieved a large water jug from the truck bed and raised it over her head.

“No, but pouring some into my wetsuit would be nice.”

He unzipped the neck zipper in the front of her suit and poured the water slowly in before reaching behind her for the back zipper. He carefully exposed her shoulder and doused it with the water.

“Here, let’s rinse your face a little too.” He cupped one hand and filled it before holding it up to her chin. She dipped her lips into his hand and used her right hand to wipe away the sand and saltwater beginning to crust around the edges of her mouth.

“You want to try to take that thing off? You’ll warm up faster.”

Tears welled in Jordan’s eyes. “I don’t think I can. It hurts.”

“Then let’s go to the hospital.”

“They’ll cut it off.” The tears trickled down her cheeks, blending into the wetness on her nose and mouth from the rinse water.

“It’s a wetsuit. We’ll buy you another one.”

“No. I just need a hot shower and an ice pack. We’ll figure out how to get the wetsuit off. But let’s look for my mask first.”

“Nope. You’re not dying of hypothermia on my watch. I’ll drive you back to the condo and put you in the shower. I can come back to look for your mask.”

The thought of her dying crossed both their minds.

As Drew broke down and secured the gear in the back of the truck and spread towels on the seats for each of them, Jordan stared out at the lights on the vacant salt pier and its extra tripod legs extending on either side. The reflections squiggled and jumped on the rough surface of the sea. Below the pier and between the legs she noticed the faint glow of the dive lights of the latecomers. All around them, divers worked their way through the surf and on the shore, mostly in pairs, but some in larger groups, stepping cautiously over the rocky ledges, adjusting for the rolling waves. Other divers, free of gear, joked and told tales in multiple languages and accents at a dozen or more pickup trucks backed up to the beach in a haphazard line, not a care among them. They were fearless vacationers, living their dream adventures. She couldn’t help but feel like hers had just ended.

“What a story you have this time, huh?” Drew tried to cheer her as he turned the truck’s wheels onto the narrow two-lane pavement and headed toward the warmth of the condo.