October 27, 2003
Caught in blue vertigo, this bail was like many others. The wave crashed on top of me, knocking me off my board and churning me around like a clothes on the spin cycle. Nothing to do but cover and roll with it. You can’t fight the waves, they’re just too powerful. I had rolled three or four times, losing track of which way is up, when their was this piercing pain in my right butt cheek. “Oww” I thought (still being underwater), “that can’t be good.” The wave spun me over one more time, and whatever was piercing my ass got some extra power from the torque of the wave. I got drilled –good. It hurt like hell. Then I felt my board hit my in the back and realized it was the fin sticking me in the ass. I didn’t know which way was up. My hand touched the sandy bottom. “Up” must be the other way so I kicked for the surface. The air was sweet.

“Shit, I’m fucked up” I thought. I got back on my board. I tried to look at my ass, but as I’ve never done any yoga I couldn’t bend back to see it. The wetsuit didn’t help either. I reached back with my hand. There was a hole in my wetsuit. I brought my hand back and there was blood on it, bright red blood. I felt my ass again. Poking out through my wetsuit was something that felt like a cold pork chop, like when you take it out of the fridge. My hand was now covered in blood. “This is not good” I thought.

Christina and I went on boat cruise a few weeks ago. It was “Fleet Week.” The Navy parades ships through the bay and the Blue Angels wow the crowd with aerial acrobatics. A friend of hers was dating the captain of the boat, so we got to see the whole thing from the middle of the bay. On the boat, they had pictures of a recent trip the crew took to the Farallon Islands –twenty eight miles off the San Francisco coast. Not much more than a few large rocks sticking out of the Pacific, the islands are a mating ground for seals. This time of year there are so many seals that you can’t see the rocks. The seals attract great white sharks. The boat crew recounted stories the water turning pink with the blood when the sharks were on the prowl.

These thoughts flashed through my mind as I lay on my board, bleeding into the water. I wondered if sharks could smell the difference between human blood and seal blood. I wasn’t going to stick around to find out. “Don’t panic” I thought, “just swim to the fucking shore and deal with it there.” I started paddling. As usual at Ocean Beach, there was a strong rip current to paddle around before I could reach the shore. I weighed factors in my head. “Paddle fast, heart beats faster, bleed faster. Paddle slow and more time for ominous dorsal fins to arrive.” It was hard to tell how badly I was hurt. The cold water numbed the wound, and I couldn’t actually see how much blood I was losing (though when it’s YOUR blood, it always seems like a lot). I didn’t feel light headed or anything, so I figured I was most likely OK. I broke into an even stroke and paddled to the shore.

After I got out of the water, I reached my hand back again. More blood. I walked to a guy stretching to prepare for the paddle out.
“Hey, I’m hurt. Can you tell me how bad?” I turned around and showed him.
“Dude, the fat of your ass is hanging out! You totally need stiches, bra!”
“Shit. How bad is the bleeding?”
He said the the bleeding wasn’t too bad, but he gave me a gauze pad. I stuffed it between the suit and the “pork chop,” figuring the suit would hold it in place. I threw my board in the car. Another surfer offered to follow me to the hospital. Cool.

It’s a good thing I got stuck in my right ass cheek. It was hard enough using the gas and brake, but using the clutch would have been hell. The numbness from the cold water was starting to wear off, so my ass was really starting to ache. Even though I wasn’t driving fast, I lost the surfer following me after ten blocks (talk about fitting the stereotype –flake). In addition to gouging me, the impact of the fin must have bruised the muscle underneath. By the time I got to the hospital, it felt like there was an apple under my right butt cheek.

As I was pulling into the parking structure, I wondered if this was god’s way of telling me that I shouldn’t have quit my job. My last day at was UCSF ten days previous, and here I was again. I got out of the car, grabbed a towel to apply pressure, and proceeded to get lost in the parking garage. I wandered around for about 5 minutes looking for the right elevator to take me to the emergency room. There were only seven to pick from. I never drove to work, so I didn’t realize how much a labyrinth the garage is. Finally, I found the elevator, took it up to street level and limped across the street to the ER. I find it highly ironic that ever since the Dept. of Homeland Security’s Color Coded Paranoia Meter was implemented, you can’t park anywhere near the Emergency room. I suppose it’s a good metaphor for the state of health care in this country: If you can find a parking spot, navigate the labyrinth, choose the correct door, and then cross a busy street, then you can get some help. If you bleed to death along the way, such is life.

I don’t have insurance. I didn’t while I worked at UCSF either (irony number two, a nurse with no health coverage). I was “Per Diem” which means “We’ll work you full time, but not give you any benefits” (and they were shocked when I quit?!). Anyway, I get the ER. I can’t sit down comfortably so I’m standing there, still in my wetsuit and holding a towel to my ass. The ER is popular place among the homeless-addict-trippers in SF. I used to work with them as a psych nurse. Today, as usual, there was a plethora of trippers around. Even in my wetsuit, I was the only one there who looked “normal,” And looking “normal,” I must have peaked their interest.
One of them looked at me and asked “What’s wrong with you?”
I said “I have two holes in my ass. I’m hoping they can fix it so tomorrow I’ll only have one.”
The tripper looked puzzled. He asked “Why do you want one hole?”
I said “That’s the one that was there originally. It makes life…easier.”
His face lit up with understanding. “Oh, I see what you mean now.”

After a few minutes, I was led into a treatment room and given a gown. I stripped off my wesuit, put on the gown and layed face first on the table. It was about two hours before the Nurse Practitioner came in and stiched me up. “Surfer ass on display in room 4.” As I couldn’t see back there very well, I was reliant on Christina to tell me what was going on. “You’re a meat and cheese boy” she said. That’s what my ass looked like.

Other than the bill, $2400 that I have no way of paying, being a student without health insurance, the thing that bummed me out the most was that I missed my Writers on Writing Class that night. Gail Scott, who wrote this incredible book My Paris , spoke. All my friends told me it was a great presentation, unlike the majority of other writers who have visited. I wanted her to sign my copy.

Anyway, the wound healed fine. Twelve stitches at $200 apiece. Seems rather expensive for a needle and thread job. And people wonder why health care is so expensive? Seems like price gouging to me. Such is life.