Four Feet In Front of Me

“Nervous about the river?”

“Always am :)”

I put my phone back in the cupholder next to my half-drank coffee from this morning and smiled a little bit. Dan always texts me before my dives asking me about my nerves. The last time I was actually nervous about the river was my first day as a rescue diver, which was a couple months ago. But, it’s been an ongoing joke since then, “Nervous about the river?”, with the same flat response, “Always am”.

5:35. He’s probably at home making dinner. I hope it’s squash soup. No, I hope it’s a stir fry... Oo, I hope it’s Jambalaya, the apartment will smell so nice in the morning when I get home...

The light turns green. My ‘99 Honda struggles to accelerate across the intersection, but I was used to it. The sun cast a yellow glow across the sky as it was setting behind the Chicago buildings, giving them an amber glow. My cracked and aged leather seats became warm when the sunlight hit just right. Leaves danced in front of my windshield from the October breeze. I cracked open the window and zipped my jacket from my chest up to my neck. It seemed a lot chillier than yesterday, but the wind through the cracked window feels nice, in a way. The drone of talk radio and the breeze seemed to cancel eachother out and make a rhythmic calming tone. Fuck, I need to get gas.

I arrived at the firehouse 15 minutes early, like always. My car makes a grunt when it's put into park, almost like it's telling me, “You’re here”. I flipped down the mirror and made a quick glance at myself. I pushed the windblown hairs from my braid behind my ears to make myself a little bit more presentable. I flipped the mirror back up, grabbed my lukewarm coffee, my phone, and put on my backpack. Took a sip as I was walking, bad idea. My nose scrunched up to the taste of eight-hour old dairy. The sun was completely set by now, black one dimensional shapes took over the bright autumn colors. I went out of my way to step on two extremely crunchy leaves in the dimly lit parking lot. Worth it.

It’s always the same routine when I walk in. Tom is sitting at the community table drinking his black coffee. He never leaves the firehouse; he probably even sleeps here. “How’s your wife, Tom?” I’ve never met his wife, but I would know if I passed her on the street from how much he complains about her. He doesn’t respond, but looks down at his mud water. Probably fighting again. Frankie walks in with the twins DeeDee and Marlie, probably telling an inappropriate joke. Frankie’s beard looks like it could grow mushrooms any second. DeeDee and Marlie laugh, showing their perfect white teeth and flipping their silky black hair behind their shoulders at the exact same time. I smile and wave, but don’t want to get involved. Stiffy is standing at least ten feet away from the TV, yelling at the remote. He’s always watching a game. Basketball, football, soccer, “Hi Stiffy” He grunts. How many games are there? He’s flipping through the channels on a Tuesday night, probably hoping to catch a college football score before we start. Mac is the youngest in the room, and is leaning up against the wall, reading a book. I try to look at the title, but don’t want to seem too nosy.

It’s 6:01. I stand against a firetruck, sigh, and I blankly stare at this motley crue. There’s two police radios talking at the same time, both gibberish. I look at my phone. 3...2...1… Right on cue. Alex barges in, out of breath, her tote half off her shoulder. A coffee, her keys, and a dog leash in her hand. How does she have a bag and still things in her hand? “Sorry I’m late, guys” Everyone looks up at her, but nobody gives her a response. It’s the routine.

Everyone’s here. In less than 5 minutes, we have all crammed in the truck. Tv is off. Jokes are finished. Books are closed. All the gear has been inspected, cleaned, and is neatly hanging up in the truck from last night’s shift. All of us sit in silence in the truck. It’s another night on the job. The BCDs sway and clink-clank against the hooks as we drive off. Ten minutes to the river. 6:17 and everyone files out onto the muddy dock, grabbing their gear with small chatter. We were all humans less than 20 minutes ago. Now, we put those personalities aside and put on our wetsuits, almost like putting on a different skin.

I always feel ridiculous putting on a wetsuit. I take off my sneakers and stuff my socks inside. I take my backpack and zip-up off and place them on a hook labeled with my name. I’m wearing an old high school t-shirt with some lame stick-on letters, “Leaders pave the way” and my running leggings. I probably look just as ridiculous before putting the wetsuit on.

My arms barely can go upwards without the suit pushing them back down. This one was a smaller one in particular. It was a chilly October day, but as I’m sliding it over my legs, my waist, my torso, and over my shoulders, I could feel small beads of sweat start to accumulate. I’ll make it work; the water is cold enough. Booties go on, then my harness. The harness gets caught in my stray hairs. I can't reach behind me, because of course, it’s in the place where God designed humans not to reach. I'm starting to get irritated. My wetsuit is working against me. The sweat is now accumulating in the nape of my neck and at the small of my back. “Mac?” Mac waddles over, already fully in his gear. I want to roll my eyes, but he's been doing this for at least double the time that I have. “Mac, can you help me please?” I giggle. Ew, don’t giggle. He has a man bun. As Mac is untangling my hairs from the harness clip, he laughs, “How did this happen?” I shrug. Was that condescending? I hope his greasy man bun gets washed by the river. “Thanks.”

I grab my BCD which is connected to my tank, my fins, and my mask from the truck and squish, squish, squish, down towards the black water. As I place the BCD upright on the dock, the fins and mask fall out of my hands, sigh. Sweat is now dripping from the top of my neck down my buttcrack. Should’ve grabbed a bigger size. I can feel my breath starting to get heavier. I arrange the BCD so I can wrap my shoulders inside it like a backpack that’s standing up on its own. I sit down with my legs overhanging the dock. Mac, DeeDee, and Frankie are already finished and getting their masks on, while Stiffy, Alex, Marlie, and Tom are checking their gear. 4 in the water and 4 tenders on the dock. I don’t make eye contact with anyone so they won’t see that I’m at least five seconds behind. Mac waddles behind me, “Want me to check for you?” I nod, still not making any eye contact. The click-clack of him checking all the mechanics, clips, and hoses makes my ears twitch. How is this man standing and functioning like a human when he has 100 lbs of gear on his back? I'm putting on my fins one by one by lifting my legs because my arms are basically inoperable, and letting out tiny grunts. Hopefully he can’t smell my sweat. He probably climbs mountains and uses the grease from his hair to start his campfires… Stop it, be nice.

I put my mask on, put my mouthpiece in, take a deep breath and fall forward. I’m the last one in the water. I’m always nervous about the river, Dan. For some reason when you’re sitting on the dock with all that gear, it makes you feel as if you’re going to immediately drown. It’s amazing how 100 lbs doesn’t take you straight to the bottom. Wow, super intrusive. My head bobs above the water, and suddenly I feel calm. The water is abyss black, but the reflection of the crescent moon makes it glisten in odd places. It’s colder than the October air, but my high body temperature evens it out to a lukewarm bath water feeling. Myself, Mac, DeeDee and Frankie are in the water. We all make eye contact through the thick layer of plastic on our masks, give each other the “ok” hand signal and go under. My rope is attached to my tender, Tom, who is on the dock. How did I get paired with Tom? I click my flashlight on and focus on my Darth Vader breathing.

We haven’t been to this part of the river yet. It’s silent. My mind is suddenly clear. I’m brushing up brown silky silt as I’m decreasing my buoyancy, getting closer to the bottom. The river is not even 8 feet deep, but the 4 -feet-visibility makes it seem like it could be 800 feet deep. It’s a dark psychedelic tie-dye of greens, browns, and blacks. The water gets neon green as it flows in my light. It’s a different world down here. It's simple.

I slowly go straight ahead, occasionally checking the rope with my flashlight to make sure it hasn’t caught on anything. The yellow rope is almost blinding compared to the brown water, brown sand, brown rocks. I look to my left, I see Mac’s silhouette and his flashlight. I look to my right, and I see two more flashlights- I think it’s DeeDee and then Frankie. I attach my flashlight to the harness strap on my shoulder so I can use both of my hands to sweep the green mucky bottom. 9 minutes pass.

I pause, let myself drift, and close my eyes. Never knew that Darth Vader could be relaxing. This is peaceful. No radio chatter, no tv noise, no stupid jokes, no text messages. Shit, I forgot to see if Dan responded to my text. My head hits something, gently bumping into something hard. I open my eyes and look up.

I opened my mouth to scream, but let out a small gasp instead. Darth Vader can't scream.

I’ve trained for this. Is this a nightmare? Is this real? I’ve never seen anything like this before. I’ve watched movies and videos and sat in lectures about this. This is why I signed up to be a search diver. I’ve gone through hours and hours of practice. I’ve robotically gone through the motions on dummies. I’ve trained for this. I’ve trained for this. I’ve-

It’s a boy. Maybe nine or ten. My head hit the rock that was tied to his feet. I can’t look away. My body is frozen. I feel goosebumps where my sweat was a half hour ago. My tender notices that I stopped moving and tugs on the rope. One. Two. “OK?” I can’t move my hands. I can’t take my eyes off of the boy. What’s his name? My flashlight is beaming on his tilted down face, or lack thereof, like a spotlight. His hair looks bright orange in the flashlight and about half of it is gone, probably eaten. His eyes are missing and in their place are tiny fish, floating around in their macabre home. His arms lay stiffly at his side, almost like they are tied to an invisible rock as well. They are eerily swaying with the rest of his body. His prepubescent fingers are wrinkled, looking more like a 90 year old woman’s hands. His t-shirt is barely fabric anymore. His jeans are haphazardly tied to a large rock, probably done in a hurry. His mouth is open and is slowly releasing a white, cottage-cheese fluid. Green and black ooze are scabbing on his sunken cheeks. Tiny bubbles arise from this stomach cavity, like a sponge releasing air bubbles underwater- probably agitated from when I hit the rock.

Two more tugs. Tom is worried. I finally blink, and tug five times on the rope. “Emergency”. What's his story? I feel Tom tug five times on the rope in response. There will be three more divers here in approximately 30 seconds.

I think about Dan:

“Nervous about the river?”

Now I am.