my stride. Still my eyes were fastened to the path in front of me as I watched for another cross-connecting ditch or for rocks or holes that could turn an ankle. Only last summer I had shown my sons Steve and Dave the fun of running along the rocks of the breakwater at Daytona, stepping and jumping from rock to rock, hardly knowing which rock we’d use next till we were there and our momentum forced us to choose, reacting with a long leap or perhaps two or three little mincing steps sideways and forward because that was all we could do. It was a sweet memory, their little five-and three-year-old legs carrying them along, and they loved it. And here I was now, ripping along, picking and choosing spontaneously, as if my life depended on it. And, indeed, it might.
I could still hear the dog chorus in the distance behind me when the first gong made the hair on my neck stand on end. It sounded more urgent and savage than any I’d heard before. It had to be about midnight, and there was no reason for a gong except for some emergency. My early departure from the party had surely been discovered now and they were sounding the alarm. God, I hope I’ve gotten far enough away! If only I hadn’t fallen into that stupid ditch! Did the dogs alert them? Make time, Baby, make time!
Other gongs chimed in, their collective dissonance like a howling banshee gaining on my heels. I fought back panic, the urge to run blindly into the darkness, anywhere away from the clutching sound. I glanced up at the moon, still weak but there. I riveted my eyes to the path ahead again and quickened my pace even more. I was flat-out running now, but I could see where the next couple of strides would take me. The whipping sound of my wet pants legs sounded their own cadence. I was really moving out now, putting precious distance between me and the dogs and the gongs and the Boy Scouts. Again I smiled as my mind raced forward to the ship, the debriefing, the medical care, a new front tooth, embracing Bea and the kids. Damn! I might even make it home before Number Four is born. The path was moving swiftly behind me. “That slippery sonovabitch Coffee, I knew if any . . . !” THUNK! A white-hot sun flashed through my mind, the lingering image vibrating with less and less intensity. In the black void that remained, tiny red and green balls wandered aimlessly through intertwined orbits and I was among them. I was one of them, floating just as aimlessly, no pain, no focus, no sensation of connectedness to anything. It seemed to go on and on, maybe for hours. I was just enjoying the silent, weightless life of a little red or green ball. I couldn’t tell—nor did I care—which color I was.
Gradually the darkness began to grow gray, the reds and greens began to pale. I was becoming aware of sound and the weight of the earth pressing against my back and the throbbing in my head. The sounds became sharper: a dog barking and snarling, several dogs. Shouts! Commands! Excitement! Confusion! The graying consciousness was jammed with the noise, the dogs, the Vietnamese, the gongs in the background. Someone or something was pulling me up by the collar. I opened my eyes, or at least one eye. My left eye was stuck closed under some liquid. I tried to blink it away, but it was warm and sticky. With one eye I recognized the Scoutmaster. He was screaming something in my face, his angry epithets louder and more intense than the rest of the voices. The movement of several flashlights and lanterns made the whole scene appear illuminated by the flames of a giant bonfire.
Holy shit! What happened? What hit me? I tried to wipe my sticky eye clear. The congealed blood told me I’d been unconscious for several minutes, maybe a half hour.
As I was jerked up to my feet my knees wobbled, and I tried to reconstruct my last few moments of consciousness. Things had been going so well, I was really moving out . . . .
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