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We indicate heading back out to the pocket with hand signals and wait for the next wave.
So many surfers are out here now; we have to be patient and wait our turn.
But it comes.
We set up, Finnan steers us into the building wave and lets me fly. I tip over the edge, but the shape switches with a gust of wind, and instead of catching water, all I feel is air. I plummet down the face in free fall, waiting to hit the water.
The seconds stretch far too long, and I fight with my mind to remember to stay relaxed.
I plunge in. Hard. The water feels like solid ground, and I slip under deeper and deeper. My body’s reaction is panic, but I fight it. All I can hear is static, and I let the wave roll and toss me about in the current. My vest inflates, and I trust it will do its job and bring me up through the churning white.
There are rescue skis all over the place, spotting, so I know I’ll be okay.
Mind over matter.
My lungs begin to burn, and disorientation sets in as I can’t see anything but grey and white. It’s impossible to fathom which way is up or down, but the air in my vest sets me right. The second I break the surface, I gulp down a mouthful of air and salt.
I look about, squinting for a ski, but can’t see it, but I think I can hear the engine.
“Get on!” It’s Finnan. And I reach for the stretcher it’s pulling.
But the waves haven’t stopped, and in the time it takes me to reach out, we’re sucked up into the crash zone of the next wave, sending the ski and Finnan into the water.
I’m under again.
Pain rips through my hip. I can’t stop myself from crying out as the intensity flares through my body, and I lose my air.
Every jolt and twist in the surf brings excruciating pain, but I have to fight back to the surface. Panic grips me this time, and I can’t stop its onslaught. It’s like nothing I’ve experienced before.
Pure, ruthless, panic.
I pop up again, but I can only see the white churn of water and maybe the jet ski’s hull.
Waves continue to pelt down and drag me under, and my head begins to feel light, throbbing in time to my racing heart. I keep fighting for air.
Until I’m pulled from the water.
“My hip,” I groan.
The high pitch of the ski engine is all I register as we’re whisked to the beach.
“Finnan?” I ask as they drag me up onto the sand. Every move and jolt registers like an electric current through my body.
My lungs burn, my throat is raw, and I’m still disorientated from the pain and lack of oxygen after being under for so long.
People.
People crowd around me.
“Finnan?” I breathe again, desperate to check on my friend.
But nobody says anything. And I can’t fight the pain any longer, and I let myself slip into darkness.
Finnan drowned that day.
He suffered a blunt force trauma to the head from the jet ski smashing into him. It likely knocked him unconscious, and then the waves took their turn, holding him under and keeping him in their grips.
I woke up in the hospital with a dislocated hip and fractured pelvis.
