F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

death

Freefallin’

by

Into the Clouds. (Image by Radikaltech; [CC BY-SA 3.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Into the Clouds. (Image by Radikaltech; [CC BY-SA 3.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0%5D, via Wikimedia Commons)
I’ve done three static-line skydives, never done the freefall, but still was intrigued with the possibilities detailed within this story. It still gives me the heebie-jeebies re-reading it. Yeah. My palms are still sweating….

This story originally appeared in Black Sheep #60, August-September 2004

 

Freefallin’

© F. P. Dorchak, 2004

“Crazy my ass,” Ronny Flynn hissed, as he hurtled his body out the Beech 18, at 20,000 feet. The day was gorgeous, with puffy, billowy cumulus clouds set against an intense, deep blue sky. Skipping the standard arch, Ronny set himself rigid as a board and angled his head downward, trying to escape the other jumpers as quickly as possible.

I’ll show them who’s crazy!

Ronny, arms tucked tight against his body and legs together, shot like a bullet for the ground. Just because his wife had perished in a skydiving accident on this date last year and that he swore he kept hearing her voice since then didn’t mean he was crazy. Just because he kept having dreams about her did not mean he was insane. Just because—several times—he’d remarked to others how he couldn’t always tell fantasy from reality…tell real life from a dream…did not mean he had to be locked up. Many times he’d swore he was dreaming, but was actually awake…or thought Angela was still alive, because—in his dreams—she was. It was other people who kept bringing him down, bursting his bubbles. People dreamed about their dear departed all the time and were never declared crazy. Why was he any different?

Oh, right…something about his friends meeting him in a restaurant while he kept insisting Angela was just visiting the Ladies Room and would be returning any time now….

Well, what did they know.

Why, they’d seen her auger in, is what; they all had.

Angela wasn’t in the Ladies Room and she wasn’t ever coming back, and he’d better seek help or they’d be forced to take more drastic measures.

No, he would not allow himself to be locked up. Would not.

But he kept insisting that he saw her everywhere…and that had led to the intervention…the psychiatrist. Those words—not from the doc, that wouldn’t have been professional—but he knew he was thinking them. Of course he was, or else he wouldn’t have had to come back. Again and again and

Crazy?

He’s show them!

Glancing to his altimeter, Ronny angled toward a bank of clouds. Sport rules declared skydivers had to be able to see their dropzone and had to avoid jumping through clouds.

But he tired of rules.

Ronny disappeared into the cloud.

Whether because he was lost in his thoughts…or the pleasantly vertigo-inducing complete whiteness enveloping him…Ronnie lost track of exactly when he was promptly smacked—hard—in the gut…and bounced off something that couldn’t—mustn’t be—solid.

Not once…but twice.

Ronny abruptly found himself sliding down the length of the inside of the cloud’s bright white, homogenous interior, his hands and arms up and out before him like he was still falling. He slid for what seemed an eternity before coming to

A stop.

Either out of the fear–response habit, or reflex, he jerked his ripcord. The parachute popped out of his rig, then gently fell into a pile on the cloud beside him. He watched as cloud fog calmly swirled around the deflated chute.

Ronny lay there on his stomach, arms outstretched before him, mouth open and eyes wide. His senses told him he’d stopped moving…but his mind, his inner equilibrium told him he had to still be falling.

Had to.

He was (again, looking to his altimeter) still at 15,000 feet, but was, indeed, no longer moving. He should be screaming earthward at 120 miles an hour. Should still hear the howl of the wind in his ears, feel it against his body. Should feel his face contorted by the pummeling airspeed. He flicked his altimeter several times, but nothing changed, and realized that though he was as if lying on his stomach, he was still able to reach beneath himself as if he weren’t. Frantic, Ronny shot his arms beside him, sending more puffs of cloud vapor dancing around him.

He yelled out.

Nervously shot up to a one–knee kneeling position.

Confused, he mentally tried to retrace his actions and mentally reach out to the exterior of the cloud—to what he knew existed out there, outside all of this blinding white that surrounded (and now, somehow, supported) him. His surroundings looked exactly like common ground fog, key word ground. Solidity was now where it should never be. He should still be hurtling earthward by force of gravity, dammit, not suspended in the stuff of dreams and insanity.

Crazy?

He again smacked his gloved hands down beside him, but they still did not pass through the vaporous moisture, hitting soft, enigmatic solidity. More swirls of cloud vapor puffed up around him.

“No–no–no–no–no. This can’t be….”

Ronny shot to both feet—cautiously crouched—hands out before him like a blind man.

Any moment, now, any moment and he would continue on his downward journey.

He glanced warily about him. Felt the sweat, cold and copious, begin to pour out of him like a squeezed sponge.

This was scary.

Jumping out of a plane with a parachute was nothing. His entire body trembled, and he took several furtive steps about his position, circling and staring down at the damned white “surface” he stood upon.

(not falling!)

“Oh, my God….”

Clumsily, he again spun around, got tangled in his deployed chute’s lines and looked to them. They didn’t dangle beneath him, but also appeared held up by whatever buoyed him. He checked his harness. All still good; nothing loose. He felt for his reserve chute; still there, of course, but, why wouldn’t it? The only thing missing from this equation was sanity. He slowly stood fully upright, lowered his arms, and again stomped about in a tight circle. Again, more puffs of vapor but still no falling. He was undeniably stopped dead in mid-air. It was all white, blinding white, and he could actually see the cloud particles drifting about before him. Feel their moisture kissing his face, even beginning to fog up his goggles—which he couldn’t quite bring himself to remove.

Tentatively, he stuck out his feet, one, then the other, and edged his way forward. Where, he had no idea, it was all white. All…eerily solid. Cushiony, but solid. He was expecting Rod Serling to step out before him any moment now, taking a puff on his cigarette as he introduced him to his world and welcome to it, with that sardonic smirk.

“This is stupid…this can’t be happening,” he said. “I have to be falling, have to still be in descent…this–this—it must be hypoxia, that’s all—”

But, he thought, if this is the case, then…then, what if I don’t open my chute? What if I don’t see the ground coming, because it’s one looow cloud…and I won’t break out til 500 feet? The automatic activation device…the AAD’ll open my chute at 1300. I’ll be fine. But what about…what about….

All this.

How could any of this be even remotely possible? Even clouds didn’t go on forever…he simply had to keep walking until he found the end of it, then, what…jump?

But if he found himself where he presently was, what made him think he’d ever find an end to this freaky affair?

Ronny popped the harness’s D–rings to his main chute and released it, then sprinted into an all–out run. He closed his eyes, held his breath—and leapt.

And once again landed hard on his stomach, again knocking the air out of him.

Maybe I’m just too messed up, maybe they were all right and I am crazy—and I’m actually still hurtling toward the ground right this second and just don’t realize it—

Ronny stared into the swirling cloud.

“This can’t be…it’s all got to be a dream, that’s all it is—I’m dreaming again….”

 

Ronny was not much of one to scare easily, but taking off his rig to repack his chute—here—gave him the heebie–jeebies like nobody’s business. He pictured himself still falling out of the sky, hypoxic, and those on the ground observing his flailing body as he tried to remove himself from his rig. It sent shivers all through him, made his palms sweat, and his gut clench. What if—

But, he’d decided, what difference would it make? If he really was crazy and he really was still falling, then he’d never know it, would he? He didn’t know it, now, did he? Well, there you go. And if he wasn’t hurtling earthward and really was…here…then he’d better either repack it or forget about it, and since he was fifteen grand into the air (or somewhere) why not at least go through the motions—even if it all turned out to be some hypoxic mental aberration…or all in the dreamworld.

Ronny took off his rig, lay it on the fluffy white firmament that appeared to be solid, and went about the task of collecting and repacking his chute.

“Ronny?”

The voice came soft and sweet…like it always did.

“What do you want,” he asked, continuing to pack his chute without looking up.

“This really is real, you know. All of it.”

“Yeah, right. I’m just having another dream. A nightmare, and you’re part of it. All in my head. Can’t tell reality from fantasy anymore. Have a history of it, you know.”

He carefully placed the chute back into the pack, avoiding to look the voice in its face.

“But, I’m real, too. And I’m right here.”

Ronny chuckled. “Now, tell me, how can I really believe that? I can’t believe anything anymore. I mean, look at me! I’m putzing around inside a frigging cloud, for chrissakes, my cheeks should be flapping in the breeze!”

“But I’m right here. Look at me. See me.”

Ronny looked up. Saw her. Or at least a shadowy outline of her obscured by the cloud. She came closer.

“This doesn’t mean anything, you know,” Ronny lied. He felt the tears. Always the tears. “I dream of you every night. See you every night.”

“But this is different, honey, this isn’t a dream.”

Ronny chuckled, just about to expel a sarcastic comeback, when he froze as Angela emerged from the cloud vapor to stand directly before him. She was as he always saw her—only better. Ronny came to his feet. He could smell that hint of Red she always wore when she wasn’t going gonzo. And she had that little scar she earned from rock climbing on her left eyebrow, which he never seemed to notice during his dreams. And—by God—her freckles, her cute little freckles were even there, another thing overlooked in his dreams.

Angela took his hand. Squeezed it.

“See, silly, I’m real. I’m really here, not like in your dreams—though, to tell the truth, they did keep me alive. This time this isn’t a dream…it isn’t all in your head—I really am standing before you, and I really am real.”

“How—”

“I can’t explain it, honey, I only know I exist. Here, now. I don’t fight it and neither should you. Just give in to it—us—before whatever did this and put us together takes it away …okay?”

Those pleading eyes, that heart–wrenching voice….

Angela came in closer, bringing him to his feet and took both his hands into hers. She planted the softest, most loving kiss on his lips. He could smell her, dammit, smell her and feel her. And those sensations brought back all the longing and emotion that had been so severely cut off during that—that day….

Angela shook her head, placing a gentle hand to his. “Don’t think about that.”

“But…why?”

“Honey…you know why…please, don’t make me talk about it. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’ve more than made up for it, now.”

“But, why did you have to kill yourself? We could have worked things out…gone back to therapy. If I’d known how badly it affected—”

Angela smiled quietly. “You know yourself better than anyone else. Would that have worked? Honestly? You’ve always philandered. Nothing made you stop—until that day. I was the closest thing that kept you even close to honest—and I cherished every moment of our time together—like I do, now. Please…all that’s over. You’re a new person, now. A better one.”

Ronny collapsed back to his knees, sobbing. Angela knelt down beside him and cradled him in her arms.

“I really don’t know what to tell you, honey. I’m also deeply sorry about what I did. If I had the chance to do things over, I’d do things differently. Two wrongs don’t make a right. But I loved you so much, so damned intensely that I didn’t want to live if I couldn’t have you totally, body and soul.

“Look, we’re here…now…please, let’s not waste this time by rehashing old wounds. I don’t know how else to impress this upon you. Look at me. Love me—now. Let’s no longer waste the time we now have together….”

 

Ronny and Angela walked hand in hand through the swirling cloud bank, Ronny, his rig now packed and slung carelessly over a shoulder.

“So, that’s all you’ve been doing since…?”

Angela nodded, guiltily. “Yes. I’ve been reliving our lives over and over; my death, over and over. Emotionally trying to will things differently. Like you are in your dreams. A couple times I found other threads…probabilities…in which I pulled that ripcord, but they still never turned out to change the past I had already created in that life. But your dreams…your emotion and love…keep pulling me back…to you. Sometimes your emotion is so strong I don’t even know where I am. It…clouds my mind, I guess you could say. And then…one moment—because there is no time where I am—I find myself here. You here.”

Ronny smiled, tears filling his eyes, his face red and hot. He squeezed her hand harder. Felt the warmth of her palms. “Good God, we humans create so many needless problems for ourselves, don’t we? I am so sorry for everything—everything—I’ve ever done. I am so sorry you’ve had to relive all those moments of ours—I don’t ever want to live without you again!”

“But you must. It isn’t your time yet. You have to continue on with your own life, with the past we’ve created, the both of us. When it is your time, I’ll be there, know this!”

“But, what about all this? If we can do this now, might it mean we’re meant to be together? That we can be together, again—forever?”

“But at what price? How long will it last? I feel…something strange…about everything…unfinished. Like I said, sometimes your emotion is so strong, I get confused about whether or not I’m really dead. You’re so strong and you don’t even realize it. But no emotion—none—can ever be maintained forever. Eventually, it tires, exhausts itself out, gets…diverted. Just like life everything dies. Sometimes I feel that maybe—maybe you should let me die—”

Angela choked off and stopped walking. Ronny stopped and turned to her, taking her sobbing form into his arms.

“How can something so real as this—even if so utterly unbelievable—not be true? Not be lasting? I can feel the hotness of your cheek, your tears, smell the sweetness of your breath. I may have been diverted before, but this…this is different. I refuse to believe that this cannot survive the moment. That we can’t make it survive forever. I refuse! I will not lose you again!”

Ronny buried his face into her neck and hair, his gear falling into the mist at their feet. Just before he closed his eyes he had an instant’s surge of panic—that his rig had actually, finally, fallen through the cloud and he was left without it, holding onto his dead wife, three miles into the air with nothing more than his imagination.

But did he really care?

No.

If he couldn’t live with her why live at all? She had enough guts to at least do what she did—why couldn’t he?

He closed his eyes and let go…and all was right with the world. He once more held his loving, precious wife tightly in his arms. Felt their love for each other intertwine in ways he’d never felt before. If he truly had gone off the deep end, then he never wanted to know about it. Never wanted to wake up. Never wanted to leave this cloud—be it in his imagination …or reality.

Ronny sobbed uncontrollably into Angela’s shoulders.

 

“So…what do we do now?” he asked, as they both sat beside each other in the swirling vapors. “Do we know how long we’ve been here?”

“I don’t know, hon. I just know I’m happy to be with you, again. I love you so much. I was so lonely. So angry. Missed you like I’d never, ever missed you before, even though I know there’s this bright light out there waiting for me. I just can’t go to it, yet. I don’t know how long all this lasts, but I never want it to go away. I’d gladly wait an eternity, here, for you.”

“I’d rather die and be with you now then go back.”

Angela smiled.

“What? What’s this?” he asked, as he hit something in the vapor. “Oh, my God—my rig. How’d that get here? I left it way over—well, wherever.”

Angela looked to it. “You knooow…I always used to think you looked quite sexy in your gear.”

“You did?”

“You knew that. I told you all the time.”

Ronny smiled sweetly. “I’m just playing.”

“Hey, why don’t you put it on, again…one more time?”

“I don’t really care to.”

“Oh, come on…just once more. Then you can toss it over the side. Forever. You’ll never need it again, you know, if you stay here. Humor me. Goggles and all.”

“Could we, you know…if I do this?”

Angela, smiled coyly. “May-beee….”

Ronny found all his gear in a pile beside him. Something felt different about reaching for the equipment this time, but he did it anyway—for her.

He did it all for her, now. Everything.

He wished it hadn’t cost her her life for him to learn his lesson. He supposed if she wanted to see him one last time in his jumping rig he could certainly do that. After all, what else did they have to do…where else did they have to go?

Ronny put everything on, Angela assisting, and when he had one glove on, Angela stepped back, soaking in every last bit of him. Ronny, smiling, looked up just as he slid his hand into the last glove—but saw a suddenly sorrowful expression descend upon her face. She reached up a trembling hand to her quivering mouth.

“What is it? Honey? What’s the mat—”

No sooner had he put the glove all the way on than he fell through the cloud—all the air, all his will to live knocked out of him like a sucker punch.

He plummeted away…away…from his wife….

“NOOO….”

I love you, Ronny, forever….

 

Ronny hit quick and hard, landing with the wind at the airport’s dropzone. He (again) popped his D–rings and hurried toward the tarmac. Another plane was queuing up for another round of jumpers and he was going to be on it. The jumpers he’d jumped with were all around him, collecting their chutes, and also making their way toward the tarmac. No time had passed.

He’d landed with the same crew of jumpers with which he’d exited the plane.

Ronny was the furthest out of all of them and broke into a run, gruffly shouldering past those he used to include among his friends. Several heard him mutter about having to “get back up there.” Back to a cloud. To Angela. That’s when everyone tried to stop him, but Ronny wasn’t about to be stopped and swung out at the closest interlopers, knocking several to the ground. Then he all-out sprinted for the revving Beech that was making its turn onto the runway, with its new load of jumpers. Ronny reached the plane, leapt at the opening, and yanked out the jump instructor, who sat just inside the door. Wiping away tears, Ronny commanded the others to also get the hell out, then forced the surprised pilot to continue, his hook knife effectively placed against the woman’s throat. The crowd on the ground could only watch as the aircraft disappeared into the clouds….

* * *

Nothing came out of the sky, after that delivery, except for the Beech and pilot, and when the pilot landed she related the following:

Ronny had apologized for his actions, and said he wasn’t going to hurt her. He just wanted her to take him over to a particular cloud formation, that’s all, and quickly, before it dissipated. He was very specific about which cloud, the pilot added. He also kept mumbling Angela’s name…and how he was coming back so they could be together…forever. The pilot mentioned how she’d noticed that Ronny only wore half his rig—his emergency canopy—while his main chute’s compartment was empty. Once they got to the specific formation—Ronny calmed—appreciably—smiled…then leapt out of the Beech and disappeared into the cloud.

The pilot said his smile was the most peaceful, most serene (and unnerving) thing she’d ever seen on a man’s face.

She then circled around and under the cloud…but never found him.

“Did anyone see him land?” she asked. “Anyone?”

All shook their heads.

“Hey!” someone shouted out on the tarmac. “Come quick—look at this! Hurry!”

The crowd ran toward the field, looking skyward, when they saw it…tumbling, end over end—a parachute rig. No jumper in it…just an empty rig, falling dirtward. It had just appeared, suddenly out from underneath one of the fair–weather cumulus cloud formations that drifted lazily overhead….

Short Story Links

Links to all my posted short stories are here.

 

 

 

 

Bone and Stone

by

Take Your Place. NY Zouave Monument Bull Run April 22, 1990 (© F. P. Dorchak Photo Scan)
Take Your Place. NY Zouave Monument Bull Run April 22, 1990 (© F. P. Dorchak Photo Scan)

This is just the “Bone poem” I’d used in my Civil War short story, “Etched in Stone.” Just wanted a separate posting of it from the story.

I’ve visited Manassas Battlefield (aka Bull Run Battlefield) three times. Visiting that battlefield affects me like no other battlefield I’ve ever visited. In a very real sense…I do feel as if the Civil War dead are reaching out to me….

This poem was originally published with the above story in The Waking Muse #1, which has since gone defunct.

 

Bone and Stone

© F. P. Dorchak, 1991

Etched in stone

Etched in stone

Take your place among the bone…

Etched in stone

Back with bone

Home is home and bone is bone….

 

Related Posts

Do The Dead Dream?

by

Come. Dream With Me. Adam Cuerden [Public domain or Attribution], via Wikimedia Commons
Come. Dream With Me. Adam Cuerden [Public domain or Attribution], via Wikimedia Commons
I’ve been working on posting as many of my short stories as possible the past couple of weeks, and it’s been quite enlightening on several levels! But on one particular level (so far) it was surprising how many times I visit the dream world. I mean, yeah, I knew I did that (obviously…I did write the danged things), but I apparently did this quite frequently! And not only that, but I also tended to use a particular phrasing a buncha times in different stories…so I changed them.

As I post these things, I’ve tried not to do much editing. No, they’re not all great, or even good, and some will be and are downright bad…but I want to put them out there. For the stories. Where I “was” when I wrote them. I’ve toyed a couple times with updating them to present times—and I may have taken such liberties once or twice—but on the whole I’ve decided to leave them as-is, albeit to lessen my sometimes heinous overuse of commas.

My God, the humanity!

I really must revisit my grammar guides.

As much as I love the work I’ve done, love these stories, I wouldn’t claim them masterpieces or anything, but they bring me back to those “halcyon days” (if I might use the term) of my earlier writing. I’ve had great bursts of creativity and productability! They’re ideas and concepts that were near and dear enough to me that I had to write them. And it’s fun to see how my writing has improved…the directions it’s taken…where it’s gone. I’m amazed where my mind went in bringing these stories to light! In surprisingly many instances I don’t even remember the exact endings anymore—and in all cases they pleasantly surprised me!

Wow, I came up with the twist?!

That was actually me who wrote that?

Another curious area I’m reconnecting with is the warping of time.

When I was thick into all the passion of my writing, I literally used to feel time warp around me. There were many times when I truly felt I’d written more than was physically possible within the physical time I spent writing said material. And since going back to these stories, I have begun to feel that warping of time once again—I’ve so missed it, and I love feeling it again!

It’s also been fun bringing to light some insights into the stories themselves. What inspired me, where something was originally published. In one story, “Red Hands,” that I’ve readied for posting for March 4 of 2016, I wrote it after I learned about a real (and understandably terrifying—perhaps “horrifying” would be the better adjective in this case) incident in another’s life. It’s also the first story where I used the real names of all involved, including myself (that was weird writing about myself), because all were (still are?) public figures…but I did ask all involved and they said I could do so. We’ll see if the story ends up that way.

But revisiting all these stories has me revisiting my roots. My interests. This Other Me who still resides in all these stories. This Other Me who still lives “back then” in the worlds and dreams where these stories are strongest…and they are strongest at the “point of power” of their creation. And since I’m “one of those nut jobs” who believes there really is No Time…just our corporeal perception of “It”…that All Time is Now…I really love getting back in touch with that Other Me…still out there…still feverishly creating these stories I’m revisiting and reliving….

This Other Me is still hot with the fire of writing and hot with the hope of getting published by the Big Houses. Hot with the fire of burning the world with my imaginative genius…not to the ground—just pleasantly singed.

The Other Me.

Still alive out there in “the past”…still writing like one possessed little bastard….

This Current Me…don’t get me wrong…he loves where he is, he really does…loves his life and what he’s made of it…he has no regrets whatsoever…but like when anyone has had a great vacation…a great life…and they fondly look back on it…they smile. Their heart feels good. Their soul. It’s not so much about wanting to go back and live in the past…it’s just about looking back and feeling good about where you’ve been.

You just feel damned good about your life. What you’ve accomplished. Who you’ve become.

My life feels like a life properly tempered by the flames of my passions…my desires. My efforts.

I’d like to say that it’s where you’ve been that makes you who you are…but since I don’t believe in Chronological Time that doesn’t quite work, does it?

I believe where you’ve been continually helps create who you are, because I firmly believe that who you are is where you are in the moment. That “point of power” I mentioned earlier.

I am firmly in my present by visiting this Other Me in other regions of my life, is perhaps a best way of putting it.

I am reinforcing who I am by visiting who I was, in your terms.

So, as I revisit my previous work…and who I am in those Past Pages…I am reconnecting with my passion…my dreams…my writing roots. There really is no Time…no Past, no Future—only the Eternally Present Now. So, if you are able to revisit Another You in another focus, you can tap into that person. That passion. You can help bolster the both of you. Change the Past…make it better. You can help Other You by reinforcing his or her energy, which, in turn reinforces Current You.

When I started revisiting all my stories I had none of this intent. I merely wanted to revisit my older work. Wanted to do something with them. After all, they weren’t doing anyone any good where they were: hidden. “Forgotten.”

Well, in truth, I’d never forgotten them. They are my children…

And you never forget your children.

So all of this Deep Thought stuff kinda hit me (and is still hitting me—I still have many more stories to post!) as I reread and reworked these things. Warped Time.

If you follow my reasoning about the illusion of Time, then you can see that there really is no death…only a change in focus…not unlike what I’m describing here. The dead are still alive and vital…we just have to find them—and some of us would rather not do that. Even some of the dead feel that way.

But the dead’s existence does not depend upon our views of them—or does it?

Of course, you have to buy into my reasoning to see any of this…but that’s what a much of my work is about: getting you to buy into my reasoning.

As I said elsewhere, my goal is to get all of you to walk away from my fiction thinking: “Yeah, this could happen!”

So I go where some of you would prefer I not tread. I visit with the dead.

Do the dead dream?

This I can unequivocally tell you:

They do.

Related Posts

The Death of Me

by

I Can DO This. By Autopilot (Own work; [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html], via Wikimedia Commons)
I Can DO This. By Autopilot (Own work; [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html%5D, via Wikimedia Commons)
This story is about scuba diving…or is it?

I have several scuba certifications and had made the trip down to Santa Rosa, New Mexico several times for these certifications, where the “Blue Hole” resides. I believe I was inspired with this story when my wife and I did our “Advanced” cert.

This story originally appeared in The Black Sheep, issue #48, in 2002.

The Death of Me

© F. P. Dorchak, 2002

 

What the hell was I doing?

How did I find myself on a scuba certification trip to some hole-in-the-ground spot in the middle of New Mexico, called the “Blue Hole,” in a tiny town off the long-defunct Route 66, called Santa Rosa? A natural spring, this Blue Hole is supposed to be sixty feet across and eighty feet deep (depending on sediment deposition, I’m told). I’m doing this in January. In the winter.

I’m purposely throwing myself into deep water.

Maybe this doesn’t mean much to you, but to me, it means everything. I mean, I’m a person who still has issues with horrible past-life drowning deaths, you know? Sure, I may be a good looking twenty-eight-year-old woman (yeah, it’s hard to admit, but I humbly feel I am—and guys really love my long hair) and single, but in my Titanic life I’m a poor working-class husband stuck below decks behind one of those inhuman and degrading locked barriers that kept the riff-raff away from the ship’s effete. Helluvan era if you ask me, one I’m glad went down with that ship. Anyway, the Titanic strikes its berg, begins foundering, and down we all go. I still have nightmares about my unshaven face hysterically gasping for air as I force it up against the underside of the deck above me (or the deck shoved itself down upon me—it all depends on your point of view, doesn’t it?). Warm urine fills my immersed pants. People, terrified and screaming, are grasping and clawing all around me. As the water level rises I see pillows, clothes, newspapers, and other loose debris “rise” with the water level—even see the terrified eyes of my wife as she reaches out to me…screaming and pleading, screaming and pleading…my own lips and teeth scraping the underside of that deck for any last gulps of air. I pull my wife into me and we give each other our last hugs, unable to control our panicked breathing and gagging coughing. Tears mix with salt water.

Then icy death strikes…is sucked into our lungs and stings our souls.

I’m sure we died from the shock, the unrelenting horror of the situation. Water filling our lungs was a mere formality. Huge pockets of air escaping from deeper shipboard compartments explode up all around us, and gargantuan groans from straining and twisting metal and wood mercilessly assault our ears as the water envelopes our bodies in its frigid death hug. Those were our last experiences as our lives-then departed and our final breaths bubbled up and out from our own “personal compartments”….

And that’s just one of my lives with which I have…issues.

There’s also the slave-trading life where I again drowned…but that’s for another time. I’ve also been burned at the stake, shot full of holes, and tortured in a slow, lingering death during the Inquisition, but it’s the drowning that really gets to me. Who knows why, it just does.

But, in this life, this moment, I sit crammed inside an SUV among a handful of others also heading down to the Blue Hole. I take refuge in listening to the soothing hum of our tires upon dry, solid, asphalt.

Dry. Solid.

The miles disappear beneath those spinning Goodyears….

 

Yes, I seem to be the only one steeped within such needless apprehension. The others, they’re laughing and joking, not bothered in the least—even back during our classroom sessions people weren’t worried one bit about any part of our certification. Just me. It’s always one, I guess I’m “it.” I mean, I really love the water—I do—but I also have this “healthy fear” of it, as ridiculous as it may seem, even with me aware of the whys and all. Why aren’t others bothered? Who knows. Every diver I’ve ever talked with is so psyched that they’re divers. That there’s no other physical experience like flying—not even skydiving (how hard is it to just fall, they ask?). That there’s a whole nother world down there. No one ever mentions being afraid of even the remotest possibility of drowning. Of getting caught underwater with your air running out. Of a ship forcing you under water. Or a slave master shackling you to a chain then tossing you overboard like so much trash because you got sick from his disease-ridden hold.

No, they all joke that you gotta die of somethin sometime, so why not do it doing something you love.

So, yes, it’s only me living those possibilities over and over in my head. Just me and my issues. I am trying to deal with them, though, in my own way. It may not be the best way, or your way, but it’s mine…and that’s all that matters, right?

During our classroom instruction, I noticed how all the instructors kept a close eye on me (and no, it wasn’t because I’m “hot”). They know, they do—I guess I’d mentioned it to them, stupid me—but I ended up feeling just a teensy bit self-conscious, you know? Who wouldn’t in my position? It’s hard to do something when you know you’re being watched, especially when it’s, well, so damned obvious. I know they mean well, but it’s unnerving. Anyway, they try to reassure me that everything’ll be all right, that there’s nothing to worry about—they’ll teach me everything I need to know. Then they clap me on the back, and walk away, leaving me to stare at all the masks, snorkels, and BCDs lining the walls…smell the chlorine from a gurgling pool and wonder if what they’d just fed me is chum, or the real thing.

If there’s nothing to worry about why am I so goddamned worried?

 

I know this guy who once told me that he nearly drowned. As a kid. He said it really wasn’t all that big a deal. Said he remembered how calm everything was…and how his body just seemed to shut off, you know, light by light, he put it. No big deal.

Calm?

How could anyone remain calm after inhaling two lungfuls of water?

Is it just me?

Welcome to my hell.

Most people worry about landing a great job, having enough money, find the “right” person in their lives…I worry about past lives and drowning.

So, for five-and-a-half hours all this…stuff…swirled through my head as the others laughed and joked (like the crewman on that faraway deck), jostling me around inside this SUV. Needless to say, I wasn’t much fun. We were almost there, to this Blue Hole. We turned off New Mexico Highway 84 for I-40. Seventeen miles to go. To the water—and to make matters worse? As soon as we’re checked in, we’re to immediately show up and begin dive number one. These idiots can’t get into the water fasted enough.

I can still feel that young woman’s nails biting into the meat of my palm as the Titanic went down….

No turning back, now. Time to face the fears.

 

Well, quelle surprise! We all made it through three of our four certification dives! It wasn’t as hard as I thought it’d be! Maybe it is all in my head! Had some trouble equalizing my ears on the way down, but once at depth I did fine!

How neat to [finally?] breathe under water!

We did all kinds of drills: removing, replacing, and clearing flooded masks, buddy breathing (which our instructors tell us is going by the wayside for some reason, but he still teaches it), removing and replacing our buoyancy control vests, and a practice controlled emergency ascent. I thought I’d have some trouble with that one, but ended up doing just fine. We took our one breath, then, regulator still in our mouths, exhale gently but continuously…ascending directly to the surface from about twenty-five feet of depth of water. Instructor by our side. It was all (I had to admit) quite fun!

But now I stand suited-up and on the cement steps that lead down into the Blue Hole.

Our instructor, Rick (yeah, he’s a hot guy himself), told us this was our final dive (I really didn’t like the sound that…)…that there were no more drills to perform.

This was just a fun dive.

We all thought this was how we were going to get our open-water certification patches—under water. Rick asked for us to meet him down at the PVC-pipe-framed underwater “platform,” which was plastic tubing attached at right angles to form an open square you can swim through. That there was just one more “tiny little formality” that needed to be completed, Rick said.

Right.

Okay, I can do this, I told myself, there’s no big deal to it…just go down one more time, blah-blah-blah, get the patch—and it’s over. All of it. Would never even have to dive again.

I could do this. It’s no Big Deal.

After all, if every certified diver has gone through what we’re going through and they all love it…how bad could it be?

Geesh, chill out, girlfriend.

I stick my regulator back into my mouth, breathe out…in…look to my buddy…and out we swim to the buoys, which are attached at the surface to the platform’s descent lines below…

 

We’re here!

Okay, for all my anxiety and ear-equalizing difficulties, I love being under water!

I never thought I’d ever say that, but I did take all this on to try to address my fears. There may not be much to look at, here (it’s kind of murky from all the diving), but I’m breathing under water! Every time I come down here I’m amazed at this little fact—I don’t know if I can adequately convey how weird it is to me. I mean, here’s this human being—me—under water—inside a totally different, basically solid, medium…and I’m breathing. It’s like sticking a miniature scuba self in a glass of water. All around me is fluid… something we wash ourselves in, drink, and die if we don’t get enough—or too much. It’s like this multifunctional medium! It could be cement for all practical purposes, or dirt (I have images of snorkeling through a neighbor’s front lawn)—it just fascinates me.

We’re all floating at platform level, adjusting our buoyancy, and awaiting our instructor’s presence. Here he comes, descending down into the center of the open platform like Superman, or something. He makes clearing your ears look so easy.

He gives each of us the “OK” signal, which we return, but he pauses at me…or maybe it just seems so? But, when he’s done “OKing” all of us, instead of handing out the patches…his gaze returns to me, and he motions for me to meet him in the center of the platform.

What-the-hell-why-me-what-are-you-doing?

Unsure and suddenly nervous, but doing as requested, I push myself up and over the plastic pipe and fin my way into the center, adjusting my buoyancy and monitoring my depth.

That’s when I see him go for his slate. We’re not done yet—there is more.

Rick displays the slate, first to me, then the rest of the group. On it it says: One more thing!

I see him smiling at me behind his regulator, as he shows me the other side. The words are simple, the act is, too, but suddenly I’m not sure I can do it. I’ve been trying to mentally prepare myself for this the entire trip, but no longer can do so.

The hour is at hand.

One more act to do before I—we—can all be certified. I’m terrified. I read the slate, again, trying to extend this moment out indefinitely. To my ultimate horror, it still says:

Remove your regulator and inhale!

After the last word is a smiley face.

A goddamned smile face!

Oh, my God—it’s time…I see the others raising their fists into the (air?) water, and hear them whooping it up (grunting) for me. I’ve been trying to tell myself the entire trip that I know I can do it (face my fears!), but suddenly feel all my resolve spill out like warm urine into a frigid North Atlantic….

I’m to drown myself!

I don’t know if I can do this—I mean, I want to, I really really want to…but now, here, at the moment of truth…the facing of all my fears—I don’t know that I can.

My breathing races, despite my mental commands to do otherwise, and I look to my console, more as a measure of procrastination than anything else. 2700 pounds of air are now compressed inside my Aluminum-80 tank…more than enough for a twenty-minute dive…but I’m now being asked to drown myself—my singular worse fear. I turn to the rest of my classmates and they’re all cheering me on—giving me the “OK” and rapping their scuba knives against the PVC pipe. Some still are grunting through their regs. I look back to Rick, and see him scribbling another note on the other side of his slate. He writes: It’s okay, you can do it!

The others continue to cheer me on.

But I can’t. I thought I could…buuut…I can’t.

I shake my head, “No,” eyes wide with terror.

Rick comes up to me…puts a hand to my shoulder, and smiles gently.

His touch is surprisingly calming, not like the one on that slave ship, and he fins over to another student, one who enthusiastically receives him, and again shows the other side of the slate, where the words Remove your regulator and inhale! still reside. The other student looks to the slate, then to me, gives me the “OK” signal and smiles.

I feel a chill in my bones. He’s actually gonna do it—how come he and the others can do it, but I can’t?

Damn it, I just don’t understand—I should be able to do this, for crying out loud—I want to do it—but-but the Titanic, the slave ship… sinking, sinking, ever sinking…into cold, inky, darkness….

I look to Daniel (the student’s name is), the one who will pave the way for my supposed turn. He looks back to me, still smiling. I can hardly believe his guts as he enthusiastically yanks his regulator from his mouth, and I see him exhale every last breath of air from his lungs with (what I’ve come to know of him is) his typical, mild, bravado. He pauses—winks at me—then inhales with such force I swear I feel the water filling his lungs…rushing through his sinuses, down his throat, and into awaiting alveoli.

I watch him as his eyes slowly transition from alive and aware…to dead and blank…

His body goes limp and his head slumps forward…

But Rick is there and grabs him.

Daniel stops finning and adjusting his buoyancy, and just…floats…like a dead fish…well, actually begins to sink a little; you know, the extra weight of the inhaled water. I see several straggling bubbles escape his mouth like an afterthought—and then that’s it—he’s gone.

D-r-o-w-n-’d.

Everyone whoops it up, banging for their chance to go next—but I don’t let them.

Where I was supposed to have gone first—an honor—another has taken my place.

I have been embarrassed to face my fear and need to suck it up. I need to do this more than any of these others—they aren’t afraid, I am. I’m the one with the issues.

I come up to Rick and bravely give him my “OK.” He pauses…smiles back…and pats me on the shoulder, still supporting Daniel. He returns my “OK,” but this time it’s more in the form of a question, as in “Am I sure?” I respond back in the affirmative. Strong. Decisive. I then look up, seeing all the other instructors and dive masters hovering about like angels (let’s go, Miss Wings!).

They’re there to support all our drowned bodies.

I give them a firm “OK” as well, and it’s returned by all, some also giving me a thumbs-up. They’re rooting for me and I suddenly swell with emotion. Rick hands off Daniel to one of the hovering angels.

Steeling my resolve before I lose it, I reach for my regulator and take a few quick, final breaths. With less hesitation then I imagined, I remove the reg from my mouth to let it float freely beside me. I eye it as I forcibly exhale as Daniel had done. Pausing, I look to Rick, who’s watching me closely. Suddenly I do—to me—a brazen act. Something I can’t believe I did.

Smiling—no, more smirking—I return the “OK”…and wink.

I then inhale with such force I swear I drink in half the Blue Hole—

And drown.

 

The soothing hum of our tires upon the dry, solid asphalt resonates indescribable warmth and comfort into each and every one of my cells like never before. I’m smiling warmly to myself while again seated in that SUV on our return trip north. All my classmates are again laughing and yucking it up, some still trying to clear their ears of residual water, but I continue to keep to myself and my thoughts.

And, yes, clogged ears.

I have to admit I’m pretty proud of myself.

I look out the window, watching extraordinary scenery pass by. My mind snorkels the sand and dirt and darts in and around Socorro cacti and scrub oak. Everything is so much more vibrant and alive!

How come I never noticed this before?

Silly me.

I smirk into my reflection in the window, fingertips gently tracing it. It is a deep, all pervading sense of well-being I now enjoy.

I’ve faced my fear.

Owned it.

I’ve finally done it, and what I’ve experienced no longer frightens.

Sometimes we forget the little things…the scent of life…the warmth of sunshine against our faces…the laughter of others…

The song of soul.

We need to die every once in a while, everyone does. It’s no big deal. I’m learning. What’s next pour moi?

I smile.

Maybe I’ll take up skydiving.

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Morningside Cemetery, Malone, New York

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Morningside Cemetery, Malone, NY, July 16, 2015
Morningside Cemetery, Malone, NY, July 16, 2015

The next stop on our whirlwind North Country tour of July 16, 2015 was the Morningside Cemetery, in Malone, NY. Curiously, as I wrote and researched this post, I found that the cemetery is formed in the shape of a “heart”! How cool is that? Click this link to see that. What my stepmom wanted to show me was the resting place of U. S. Vice President William Wheeler (1876-1880).

I’m nodding all-knowledgeable-like when she told me this, but inside I’m, like, “Vice President William Who?!”

Isn’t that terrible?

U. S. Vice President William A. Wheeler, Morningside Cemetery, Malone, New York, July 16, 2015
U. S. Vice President William A. Wheeler, Morningside Cemetery, Malone, New York, July 16, 2015

Sure, I know there are presidents and VPs that extend back beyond the age of social media history, but, um, I don’t remember them all, sorry. And I’m not a student of politics. I learned what I needed to in grade and high school and hoped it helped frame my mind for the future, but, apparently, I’m in good company, for Rutherford B. Hayes also once asked: “Who is Wheeler?”

Sorry, Mr. Vice President!

There are some other notables interred here, including Orville Gibson, who founded the Gibson Guitar Company. He was also born in Chateaugay, new York—I never knew that. Apparently there was speculation Gibson suffered some form of mental illness. I don’t think we saw his gravestone, but I do believe my stepmom may have mentioned him. Click here for more information on Mr. Gibson.

Anyway, the Vice President’s resting place is beautiful—in fact the entire cemetery is. Rolling hills, tons of trees and shadows, and some really cool-looking grave art. Just like you’d expect a northeastern cemetery to look like! It was quiet, nary another (soul?) around, and the two of us just walked among the gravestones….

 

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Another Probable Death Vision

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Hello, Again, Reaper. No, Not Yet. (By Jesus david piña (Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons)
Hello, Again, Reaper. No, Not Yet. (By Jesus David Piña [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons)
Yesterday, while driving back from a trip to Wyoming with a couple of others, I had another vision similar to the one I described about at an intersection in Arizona, in The Grotesquery.

We were switching off with our driving, and at the time I was in the back seat of the vehicle. I was alternately reading and cleaning off my iPad’s tons of emails as I looked out the window. It was a stretch of two-lane road between Riverton and Casper, Wyoming before the Interstate takes over at Casper. As I’m cleaning off e-mails, I suddenly have this image of all of us in a car crash…including an article stating that one of the passengers had been on his iPad. I internally sneered at being “that guy.”

I looked up.

I saw the silver front grill of a white, late-model Ford truck bearing down on us.

We were halfway into the oncoming lane’s traffic.

I heard a shout from one of the two in the front seat.

We jerked back into our lane.

Besides thinking WTF, the next question in my mind was why the hell hadn’t that truck swerved out of our way?

I won’t go into why we had drifted into the on-coming lane’s traffic. The fact that we had…and I’d again had another mental image just before another probable accident…is the point.

If I’m going to continue having these things, I’d really like to have them with a little more room for error, if you know what I mean.

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The Grotesquery (fpdorchak.wordpress.com)