Big Splash

Big Splash

Steve Craig and I were at my family ranch near Austin one day in 1977, fishing from a large wooden platform on a ten-acre lake. Piers driven deep into the mud at ten-foot intervals held the structure in place. Wooden planks connected the piers and ran parallel to the water to keep the dock from leaning and to help prevent people from falling into the water.
We had slipped away from college that afternoon after finals at the University of Texas and were chilling with beer and bar-b-que. Cowboy hats kept the sun from our faces and our cutoff jeans were ready for a swim later.
After watching a fishing pole for an hour, it dipped downward. I laughed and grabbed the pole as the floating bobber disappeared underwater. I jerked the line to set the hook, and the pole bent double as line peeled off the reel.
“It’s big. Don’t let it get away,” Steve warned.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got this fish. It’s staying deep, so it must be a catfish.”
The line approached the underwater piers beneath us.
“Keep him away from the dock,” Steve warned.
I reached over the top two-by-six rail, grinding it into my stomach while I pushed my pole away from the dock. The line pulsated as the fish swam under the first floor.
“Damn.”
Steve laughed, saying, “He outsmarted you. The line will break off on those piers.”
“No way.”
I pulled the pole left and right, to no avail. Reaching my pole further out than I should, I tried to reel the line in. The fish made another lunge, lifting my feet off the deck. Oh no. I kicked, and my arms flailed, though I refused to let go of the pole.
Steve laughed again and said, “You’re going swimming, Gordon,” as I began a slow-motion pivot over the board.
My head hit the sharp floorboards sticking out from the pier, which sent my hat flying out to deeper water.
I plunged into the water, flat on my back with a loud splash that knocked the air from my lungs. Crimson swirled around my scalp wound. Stunned, I couldn’t move my limbs as I descended into ten-foot-deep water. This is interesting, but not good. Light slowly became darkness as more blood left my scalp. Though the piers were only a few feet away, my arms wouldn’t move. I wasn’t worried. Steve will save me. I sank further into oblivion. My lungs protested. I attempted to bring my arms under me to push off the bottom when I hit, but they were paralyzed. Darker and darker. Which way is up? I need to inhale soon! Landing with a thump in mud and blackness, my lungs sucked deeply, pulling my lips apart. No. No. I made one last effort to kick my legs. Nothing. Where is Steve? I gave up and inhaled. Water entered my lungs and nose as I had always envisioned this terrible moment would be. Even though my empty lungs could not cough, they did not hurt. I closed my eyes and relaxed to begin my final sleep. This would be easy.
A scream burst from my lips as I smashed into something hard.
“What’s the matter?” yelled my wife.
“I’m drowning!”
“You fell out of bed and landed on the carpet.”
“Where am I?”
She turned on a light and chuckled. “You’re dreaming. Wake up!”
The light pulled me from black liquid death to the land of the living.
“I fell into a lake and was drowning.”
“You’re still here with me. Go back to sleep.”
The light went out, but the intense dream kept me awake. As often happens with dreams, I knew the vivid details of this wonderful story material would lose their edges if not transcribed soon. It so happened that I was almost finished with writing a book about my true near-death experiences. This story would provide a great ending with a rare description of actual dying that I was unable to imagine before the dream.


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