kick too frantically as that had been my undoing on
The Agency course. You don’t rise any quicker, you just use up your oxygen.
Instead I tried meditating my way to the surface. This sounds a bit gay, and
I’ll be the first to admit it, but it can actually save your life. By focussing
inwardly and shutting down all extraneous activity, you conserve oxygen for
your vital organs, granting you precious extra seconds to circle around in the
swells as you float towards daylight. But it is an incredibly hard thing to do,
because you’ve basically got to fight against your instincts. I mean, when
you’re in thirty feet of water and gasping for breath, your panic stations will
demand that you strike for the surface, but fighting against the water will
only make you want to breathe all the more. What you actually have to do is
take a moment to calm yourself, then relax as many muscles as you can (your
back, neck, buttocks, stomach etc) and slowly and rhythmically waft yourself
toward the light. Hopefully, if you’ve done it right, Saint Peter won’t be
standing there when you open your eyes to tell you you should have kicked, and
you’ll break the surface as gently as a sea turtle on its journeys around the
oceans.
Of course, it’s almost always those last
few inches that actually kill you, tricking you into believing that you’ve made
it when you haven’t, and that’s when you’ve got to be at your most disciplined
and resist the urge to thrash for the finishing line.
Though this can be particularly hard when
a semi-submerged tree branch stabs you in the face.
“Oh you… [cough]… fuckin’…. [retch]… cuntin’… fuck…
[gag]… shi… [heave]… urghhh!”
I managed to somehow cling onto the
branch and pulled myself the last few inches to the surface, though the pain
that gouged my face almost knocked me back into the depths. I gulped down a
bellyful of river and air, coughing and hacking with every breath until I was
eventually able to keep some air down.
The river continued to pull at my feet,
but my arms were tightly wrapped around the branch to keep me afloat.
I looked around to take stock of my
situation but saw nothing out of the right eye but blood and shapes, and
nothing at all out of my left. I felt my face and a shiver ran down my spine
when I found a tangled mess of skin and bone where my left eye used to be.
“Oh shit!”
I splashed some water into my right eye
to clear my vision, but I was still unable to see anything at all out of my
left.
Blood started pouring down my face again,
flavouring the water and banging the dinner gong for any nearby crocodiles, so
I put my less immediate worries on hold for a moment and hauled myself along
the branch until I reached the bank. The mud sucked at my hands and feet but a
little more clambering saw me up the slope and away from the Zambezi’s circling
patrons.
I wanted to clean my face, push it back
together and pick out any fragments of wood and dirt that were stuck in my eye,
but my hands were caked with mud and my shirt was somehow filthier than the
water it had just left.
I found some waxy vegetation nearby and
did what I could to clean my hands up, and although I was still reluctant to
put them into an open wound, what choice did I have?
A couple of bits of bark and one of the
tastier splinters of wood fell from my face as I tried to flick it clean, along
with one or bits I think I was meant to keep. Only my hand was keeping my
eyeball and eyebrow in place, so I untied my bandana from around my neck and did
what I could to tie it around my head. My eye was gone, and a good proportion
of my face too, but at least I was alive, which is more than a lot of people
would be able to say come the end of this day.
I was stupidly just allowing myself think
that the worst of it was behind me when the same waxy vegetation that had
served as my medicine cabinet began exploding all around me. I looked up and
saw Captain Bolaji on the crest of the
The Agency course. You don’t rise any quicker, you just use up your oxygen.
Instead I tried meditating my way to the surface. This sounds a bit gay, and
I’ll be the first to admit it, but it can actually save your life. By focussing
inwardly and shutting down all extraneous activity, you conserve oxygen for
your vital organs, granting you precious extra seconds to circle around in the
swells as you float towards daylight. But it is an incredibly hard thing to do,
because you’ve basically got to fight against your instincts. I mean, when
you’re in thirty feet of water and gasping for breath, your panic stations will
demand that you strike for the surface, but fighting against the water will
only make you want to breathe all the more. What you actually have to do is
take a moment to calm yourself, then relax as many muscles as you can (your
back, neck, buttocks, stomach etc) and slowly and rhythmically waft yourself
toward the light. Hopefully, if you’ve done it right, Saint Peter won’t be
standing there when you open your eyes to tell you you should have kicked, and
you’ll break the surface as gently as a sea turtle on its journeys around the
oceans.
Of course, it’s almost always those last
few inches that actually kill you, tricking you into believing that you’ve made
it when you haven’t, and that’s when you’ve got to be at your most disciplined
and resist the urge to thrash for the finishing line.
Though this can be particularly hard when
a semi-submerged tree branch stabs you in the face.
“Oh you… [cough]… fuckin’…. [retch]… cuntin’… fuck…
[gag]… shi… [heave]… urghhh!”
I managed to somehow cling onto the
branch and pulled myself the last few inches to the surface, though the pain
that gouged my face almost knocked me back into the depths. I gulped down a
bellyful of river and air, coughing and hacking with every breath until I was
eventually able to keep some air down.
The river continued to pull at my feet,
but my arms were tightly wrapped around the branch to keep me afloat.
I looked around to take stock of my
situation but saw nothing out of the right eye but blood and shapes, and
nothing at all out of my left. I felt my face and a shiver ran down my spine
when I found a tangled mess of skin and bone where my left eye used to be.
“Oh shit!”
I splashed some water into my right eye
to clear my vision, but I was still unable to see anything at all out of my
left.
Blood started pouring down my face again,
flavouring the water and banging the dinner gong for any nearby crocodiles, so
I put my less immediate worries on hold for a moment and hauled myself along
the branch until I reached the bank. The mud sucked at my hands and feet but a
little more clambering saw me up the slope and away from the Zambezi’s circling
patrons.
I wanted to clean my face, push it back
together and pick out any fragments of wood and dirt that were stuck in my eye,
but my hands were caked with mud and my shirt was somehow filthier than the
water it had just left.
I found some waxy vegetation nearby and
did what I could to clean my hands up, and although I was still reluctant to
put them into an open wound, what choice did I have?
A couple of bits of bark and one of the
tastier splinters of wood fell from my face as I tried to flick it clean, along
with one or bits I think I was meant to keep. Only my hand was keeping my
eyeball and eyebrow in place, so I untied my bandana from around my neck and did
what I could to tie it around my head. My eye was gone, and a good proportion
of my face too, but at least I was alive, which is more than a lot of people
would be able to say come the end of this day.
I was stupidly just allowing myself think
that the worst of it was behind me when the same waxy vegetation that had
served as my medicine cabinet began exploding all around me. I looked up and
saw Captain Bolaji on the crest of the
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