From: Alex Chaffee [alex@stinky.com]

Sent: Sunday, June 14, 1998 3:33 PM

Subject: Ouch





Saturday morning, Fort Collins, Colorado. I woke up around seven, with

plans to go to Rocky Mountain National Park and hike. It was a

beautiful morning, but I was a little down -- post-class blues, I

guess. I couldn't get motivated. I watched TV (Pinky & The Brain,

Spider-Man, The Making Of Speed 2), I listened to NPR, I flipped

through a copy of Penthouse Variations that a previous guest had

thoughtfully left in the night table drawer, but nothing got me

going. Ten A.M. found me lying on the narrow couch, listening to Car

Talk. Click and Clack finally drove me out of my stupor (so to speak),

down to the hotel pool for my daily laps.



I usually start my routine with two fully underwater laps. I like the

idea of training until I can hold my breath for minutes and minutes of

heavy underwater exercise, like Ed Harris in The Abyss. I've found

that I can usually hold my breath longer if I just stare at the floor

and let my mind wander. (I discovered an exception to this rule after

watching the flooded cafeteria scene in Alien: Resurrection -- looking

at the far wall works fine if I imagine that it's the exit and I'm

being chased by an Alien.)



So it turns out this pool is long enough for exactly five full strokes

per length. I did a full lap -- no problem. I did another, and figured

I could stand one more. So I take a deep breath, plunge, kick

off... one... two... I'm starting to think about the

park... three... I guess there'll still be snow up there... four... I

wonder how many hours' hike it is to the ridge... five... six--SMACK!



It's not that I lost count exactly, but that the part of my brain that

was counting got disconnected from the part that was kicking. I

grabbed my head and stood up in a flash. Amber waves of pain started

to spread as various parts of my head, neck and shoulders realized

that I'd just rammed them directly into a concrete wall. I tore off my

goggles and supported my neck and tried to breathe deeply. After a

minute or two it felt like it wasn't going to be so bad; there was no

blood; my neck didn't complain if I stretched from side to side; but

as I paced around the edge of the pool looking for a mirror it

occurred to me how stupid it would have been to knock myself

unconscious in an unattended pool.



I decided to get back on the horse and climbed back in the pool to

start swimming again, but before I could begin, the image of me

whacking my head against the far wall came to me, and seemed quite

funny in a slapstick way. I started giggling hysterically. I thought,

"Depressed? Feeling down? Try bashing yourself in the head!" and that

caused me to laugh even more. I finally stopped myself by submerging

and pinching my nose. Then I swam more laps than I had all week, and

now I'm raring to hike.



This episode brought back a memory of the only time in my life I've

needed stitches. I was 9 years old, swimming in an outdoor pool at our

apartment complex in El Paso, Texas. This pool had a little rounded

ridge over the circumference of the pool -- presumably to give more

purchase when climbing out, or maybe to help keep precious water from

splashing out onto the sweltering cement. I was having fun, pretending

I was a seal, taking long arcs underwater. One arc ended with me

coming up right next to the pool wall with seal-like

precision. Unfortunately, from underwater, I couldn't see that rim. As

I broke the surface, my forehead scraped directly against the concrete

ridge, but I didn't feel a thing. I didn't realize I was hurt until I

had pulled myself out and walked towards the lounging grownups, and

was taken aback by their shocked expressions. I touched my head and my

hand came away bloody. My father immediately lifted me in his arms and

almost before I had time to get scared, I was in the E.R. getting

stitches. I thought this was totally cool, not just because of the

gore, but because the stitches were made with a high-tech thread that

would just dissolve in a few weeks, obviating the need for a return

visit. I imagine I can still see the scar nestled among my several

wrinkles.



(Health update: The skull is a remarkable instrument. I have two

nickel-sized welts on my forehead, and a little ding on the bridge of

my nose, but no permanent damage.)



 - Alex, 13 June 1998



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