It isn’t, of course, the falling that hurts or kills you. It is the sudden stop. Or it’s what you fall against. Every surfer has fallen, this getting more intense by having a wave actually causing us to fall, with force, and/or falling on us with more force. And then there is what we are falling into and/or slammed against: Reefs, rocks, gravel, and/or a combination of these, with or without added jaggedess. And then there is the added joy of having our board becoming a weapon that can provide blunt force trauma, a cut from a fin, and/or a stabbing-type wound. Might as well add in other people’s boards, and/or other people. Sounds dangerous.

I suddenly feel compelled to list every actual injury that can be connected to ladders in my fifty-six year (in June) career in painting. This excludes cuts and bruises from knives and scrapers, the smacking of a thumb or finger with a misaimed hammer, punctures from splinters, some quite long and quite deep, from sanding straight grain fir, and other injuries too common and/or ridiculous to list. None super serious.

Despite many sketchy ladder moves and spooky positioning, any of which could have had consequences, and the fact (or my line on the issue) that a ladder has 29 ways to hurt a person, and then one can fall, the number comes in at… tabulating… six. The list of injuries includes TWO sprained and/or broken ankles (never got x-rays) from missing a rung on now-illegal extension ladders that had a missing run on the ‘fly’ section; ONE chest-compression injury from trying to carry too much stuff down a ladder, facing out (heels don’t have the ‘purchase’ feet do); ONE ‘legs stretched to ballerinas-only position injury on a three-legged ‘picker’ ladder after one leg sank in a recent backfill, and one of my feet stayed on the rung; ONE injury from a ‘kick-out’ because the ‘stand-offs’ on the ladder were not on the roof (imagine teeter-totter); ONE accident, yesterday, when, and I’m still evaluating exactly what went wrong, I was coming down a ladder with two buckets of paint, avoiding tree branches, with the ladder in a less than ideal (though frequently necessary) position… AND, I swear, I would have been fine in the tumble if I hadn’t hit the edge of a planter pot.

I probably wouldn’t have gone to the JEFFERSON GENERAL HOSPITAL Emergency Room if there hadn’t been so much BLOOD. This is me in the outfit I was wearing when they released me. “Are you attached to these clothes?” I was asked as a nurse cut my two layers of shirts away. “No, they’re attached to me,” I said as I pulled the very long long sleeved shirt out of my pants (just in time, I was thinking). I was also wearing a beanie, but it got kind of ruined by my using it to hold pressure.

It’s actually quite a story, from my perspective, and I have people to thank: My clients- MARTI insisted I go to the ER. “You look like a Texas Chainsaw Massacre victim,” she said. I checked it in a mirror. She was right. ANDY drove me to the ER and waited until the stitching (20) was done, hung out until I was released, and drove me back to my car. Sorry about the blood in your car, Andy. DONITA, a nurse at Jefferson General, who, informed there was a bloodied painter with a head wound, instantly recognized me, from the back of my head. Donita, who Trish and I have known the entire time we havde lived in Quilcene, acted as a liaison with the staff, mostly saying, “No, he’s always like this. It’s (maniacal behavior and joking in the face of imminent catastrophe) normal… for him.” In exchange, I said, “Donita and my wife and I were all EMTs together. Donita always volunteered to be a victim. I never did.”

The attending physician, KEVIN R. BOWMAN, MD, should also be mentioned. As should that none of this bumping and bleeding was actually painful. Sticking needles into my head; that was. MEANWHILE Trish was calling and texting, the ER folks (of various ranks) were looking for the needles and thread and extractors and other tools, mostly unsuccessfully, some persistent but tiny artery was still pumping, and I was saying things, like, “Reminds me, for some reason, of ‘MASH,’ ‘big stitches.’ MEAN MEANWHILE, Dr. Bowman, having revealed he lives in Bellingham, left himself open to me discussing all things surfing. Him admitting he is trying to learn Wing Foiling led to more discussion of surf hierarchies and ‘adult learners,’ and why I find that in any way amusing.

When it was determined that I would survive despite my killer blood pressure, and while Dr. Bowman was still stitching (“Probably won’t leave a scar.” “Will I be sprouting new hair?” “No.”), I was trying to arrange a ride back to my car. My friend, Keith, who had recently received another (I’m not counting) big ass bruise (on his thigh) from bouncing off rocks, agreed to come get me when I was released, but a woman from the front came in and asked me if Andy could come back. “He’s been here the whole time?” Yeah. So he came back, and, while waiting, we chatted about all kinds of deeply and shallowly philosophical stuff, and Bob Dylan (Andy has a gre-eeat story about a friend of his at Newport, 1965, front row tickets courtesy of Joan Baez). I called Keith back.

This morning Keith texted to see if I am okay. I am. Just a cut. “Good. I was a little worried with the last minute ride cancellation and sort of giddiness on the phone.” Giddy? Me?

Since I’m oh so close to getting my novel, “Swamis,” ready to publish, and my songs/poems collection, “Love Songs For Cynics,” I decided to overwrite an overwrought poem. This one:

The bodies still strewn on the battlefield, fires, once flaring, still smoldering, blood, once pumping, pooled or seeping, quietly, from bodies, once soldiers or shoppers or farmers or children of this or some other tribe, the survivors were, briefly, giddy, out of ammo, fingers flexing and relaxing, adrenaline pushing, unrestrained, from every poor, paused a moment before reloading.

It seems to be a thing we participate in, the ranking of surfers based on criteria other than a person’s ability to ride waves. The ranking system varies but usually is skewed toward the person placing each of us into categories. It was once that the ultimate “Waterman” or water-person was skilled in multiple facets; yeah, but… I took this photo of ALLEN mostly because someone on the beach said it’s, with the roof extension lowered in this image, probably a hundred-thousand dollar rig. “No,” Allen bought it used for Forty grand (not sure if that’s with or without the camper). Points for Allen on one scale. “I traded out about fifteen-hundred worth of work for mine,” I said. I’m not claiming bonus points, but for $98,500 I can make a few trips searching for waves. Or maybe I can buy a newer board. Or…

Again, am I judging? Constantly, though I’m trying to quit. I told Trish that, in the movies, someone who hits something like a planter pot and busts upon his head, dies. “No,” she said, “Sometimes they wake up with amnesia.” She laughed. “You might wake up and not know where you are and ask, ‘how the hell’d I end up in this dump?'” It’s a long story, and with every story, I’m working on it.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. Wing Foilers, non-wing foilers, E bike riders, kite surfers, some e foil riders, some kayakers, shortboarders, longboarders, snow riders, skate boarders, any and all learners or almost masters, of any age, of the fine art of flowing and gliding and ripping and falling are welcome.

I am past the pissed off, embarrassed, relieved, and the giddiness phases. I am still cruising in the thankful phase. For every accident we are involved in, there are so many near misses, so many ‘could have beens,’ any of which would change our story. As Andy said, “There are miracles on both ends; we don’t remember our birth, and our death is still a mystery.” Yeah, I told you it was philosophical.