It was Sunday. September. Our crew
was pushing it hard for second place.
Our ears roared as the stem-post filleted
the Venice lagoon.
Then another boat kicked into the turn
and we hit their high wash. Our sponson
just pecked the wake, but hooked,
dragged, snapped and we barrel-rolled
back over front, then tacked—
a split-second aloft—
straight down, like hitting brick
at 80 mph. My mind left;
there was a high-pitched whine
like a dog’s whistle, that piped on and on.
I flat-lined. Giuseppe, the medic,
got to me, wiped the blood clear,
and blew into the place where my teeth used to be.
I’d been injured before, bruised black
as an old banana, and twice broke my nose.
This was different. There’s no fear,
you just know you’re gone.
Someone was screaming, She’s dead, leave her,
and there were thumps on my chest
like a fist on a tomb.
The sky fluttered, wobbled. I started to breathe.
I was nowhere; calm, happy. My team
hovered above while I flowed underneath.
And that weird whistle, the dazzling brightness.
I drifted like TV static, prickly-warm, like Epsom salts
dissolving and sifting through Giuseppe’s hand.
There’s one moment I remember
in all that light and clatter: I’d been lifted
into a helicopter when something cold
went from my neck to my stomach.
It was paramedics bent over
my shattered body (for all I knew kneeling to pray),
and cutting through my race overalls with a cold
pair of scissors. I remember thinking,
But it’s a La Perla bra. It’s expensive,
they’re going to cut it off. Then they lost me again.