Paraterror

My wife and I went to Cozumel in nineteen ninety eight. It was a paradise. I had parasailed many times before, and wanted to do it again.

We got on a ‘cigarette’ type boat with a powerful V 8 inboard rumbling beneath the deck. Whenever the speedboat had gotten well out into the turquoise waters, the driver had his first mate take the wheel and climbed up onto an elevated platform equipped with a winch. The chute was on the end of the light cable, with a harness in between, so I simply mounted the rostrum, strapped up, and was reeled out. As I enjoyed the spectacular view, I thought what a far cry my aerial adventure was from times past.

In the early times of the sport, a participant was hitched up in a harness with a parachute on its rear, and a link in front. A motorboat with a nylon towline behind it pulled parallel to the coastline just offshore. A swimmer went in, got the rope, brought it back, and hooked it onto the connection. A mob of local boys held the chute aloft, and allowed the breeze to catch it. When the wind billowed the parasol, and the line was taut, the head man waved his arm overhead. The boat driver gunned the throttle, and took off. The parachuter walked a few steps, and went airborne.

One of my biggest fears was absurd. I was scared of shark attack, even in a freshwater lake. There were species that swim in rivers and connecting lakes. I saw a film in my youth about a mammoth great white shark that ate a number of folks. It was based on the true story of a rogue white that swam up a New Jersey River in 1916.

The most terrific scene in it was after a guy had been knocked out of a rowboat. When he tried to climb back in, from an overhead view, the fish could be seen underwater, jaws agape, as it glided silently in to bushwhack the guy. It was horrible!

They say a person is more likely to be hit by lightening than they are to be bitten by a shark, but that probably isn’t of great comfort to them who have.

In the flick, a salty sailor recounted the tale of The USS Indianapolis, another true story. It was one of FDR’s favorite boats (The USS Augusta was his other).

They say Franklin Delano knew the Imperial Japans were going to hit Pearl Harbor.

The US ripped off the Nipponese Naval Code at a conference in Washington DC held in 1910. The chief was warned, but believed the port was safe because it was only forty feet deep. Standard nautical missiles at that time needed at least a fifty foot depth to function.

The cunning Asians rigged an aerial torpor that ran at a thirty foot draught, plus they had learned the lesson well when Billy Mitchell said future conflicts would be won from the air. Yamamoto saw the newsreel of Mitchell’s biplanes sink the Austro Hungarian flagship after WW1. ‘Dugout’ Doug (it was like a knock knock joke, ‘Have you ever heard of Dugout Doug?’ The answer was, ‘Why yes, I’m one of those who dug Doug out!’) McArthur (people were easily amused in the nineteen forties) was the only officer at Mitchell’s court martial for insubordinance that voted for him, (he also commanded the troops that routed the bonus army from DC for Hoover).

The Rising Sun’s Air Force honed its skills well in the prosaic bombardment of Manchuria.

After FDR fell out in Warm Springs, Georgia in 1945, The Indianapolis delivered a component of The Hiroshima Bomb to Tinian Island.

They say that the fissionable materiels for the only amalgamated weapons ever to be utilized on people were surrendered to the allies by The Nazis in exchange for enough expertly crafted fake identification to allow some Germans to escape into South America after the war.

Naval intelligence didn’t tell anyone about the voyage. The shipmen didn’t know what they carried. The scuttlebut on the cruiser rumored it to be a golden toilet for General McArthur.

The Navy neglected to mention that a ship got torpedoed the day before where Indianapolis would be on the return leg of their journey, or that they knew there was enemy U boat activity there. In 1945 The Japanese were on the ropes. Not many of their aircraft, or submarines were operable. Their munitions weren’t like the precision ‘smart’ weaponry of the 21rst century. Young Nipponese martyred themselves much like present day middle eastern fanatics, being under the impression they’d be ushered into a heavenly paradise when they did. Aerially, the youthful zealots dove olden aircraft full of explosives called ‘kamakazies’ onto warships.

Aquatically, they steered ‘kai tens’(essentially motorized mines with rudders attached) into ships. On The Indianapolis’ last night afloat, it was overcast. The Nippon Submersible that trailed it couldn’t see well enough to aim. When they surfaced, they intended to use their kai tens. Before they got them out, the clouds parted, and moonbeams lent them adequate light to focus. They fired six torpedos, then submerged. Two of them hit the mariner. The cinematic yarn purported the vessel sank so quickly, no time was available to send a distress signal. In fact, an international mayday was transmitted. It was received at multiple posts, but wasn’t heeded because it was suspected of being an enemy trick. The soldiers in the water were there for days. Sharks decimated their numbers.

The swabbies got in groups. When a fin headed toward them, they would all slap the water.

They say now slapping sounds attract sharks.

I imagined the dark nights were awful. Their life vests, designed to remain buoyant for just a few days, sank when they became sodden.

I got as far out in the ocean as the ride went, and the boat began a gradual turn to head back to the waterfront. I had done this several times. When the tug got in close, they ran along analogous to the land, and I reached over the shoulder closest to terra firma (usually the left), and pulled on a strap. Through some aerodynamic wizardry, the maneuver caused the chute to veer over the sands. When that happened, the boatswain shut the craft’s engine down. The tripper drifted earthward. The same crowd who hoisted the silk trotted to and fro beneath like a footballer watches a kickoff in the air, then caught the tourist to prevent any injury.

About halfway through the turn, there was a revolting development. The outboard coughed, and died. There was a hundred feet of nyloned ski rope between the boat and the parapluie. In a couple seconds, as I drifted down, I could hear them grind the starter as they tried to recrank it.

‘They’ll prob’ly get it goin’ again ‘afore I ditch’, I thought desperately. The hope evaporated as I saw my reflection in the hyaline rushing up to meet me. There was no doubt I was going in. I scanned all around for any dorsal fins. ‘Anyway’, my subconscious said weakly, ‘That show was filmed in The Atlantic. This is The Pacific’.

I plunged in, came up and sputtered, then the bumbershoot descended over my head.

I watch a lot of television. Unlike most folks, I favor documentaries.

I viewed one the previous night, about an island where seals annually flocked to mate. White sharks feasted on them. The isle was off Baja California... right in these verily waters.... The fish crept along the bottom. When they saw their prey, they swooped up and nailed them. The seals could go faster than the predators, and could easily evade them... if they saw them first. I hastily stuffed the fabric under myself. If one brushed me, maybe it’d get a mouthful of cloth, and decide I was unfit to eat. One program said the brutes bumped potential prey beforehand, and sensors akin to tastebuds in their coarse hides told them if it was comestible.

As soon as I got the satin under me, I began pulling himself to the skiff on the rope. I rapidly tired, and was soon exhausted. I heard shouting from the dinghy, and momentarily stopped. I worked with some Latinos, and had learned a smattering of the lingo. I hoped they weren’t telling me not to look behind me. I looked back anyway, saw nothing, then refocused on the dory. The duo in the boat wanted me to unbuckle from the rigging, and swim to the launch. ‘No way!’, I thought. One video said the carnivores could hear someone flail in the water over a mile away, and the noise sounded like a wounded bass to them. ‘That’d be like ringin’ the dinner bell!’, I thought.

I had gotten approximately half the way to the tender, and had expended all my energy, when my worst nightmare became flesh. A triangular, shiny black fin rose from the water between me and the craft. It was coming my way. ‘It’ll be here in a couple seconds!’, my mind screamed. It started to submerge, and I saw something that greatly relieved me. A plume of mist shot up. It was a porpoise!

Adrenaline born of fear spurred me on. I saw a tv serial as an adolescent about an island paradise. In spite of the name, most every episode was at sea. About every other installment, someone (usually a villain) fell overboard, and was eaten by sharks. They’d bob, be encircled by flukes, emit a piercing scream, then disappear.

I was twenty feet from the hulk when something bumped me hard on the right thigh.

It was about the same force as a solid football block. Although I was physically spent, fright permitted me to draw on reserve strength I hadn’t known I posessed. The most highly trained of physicians, under optimum laboratory conditions, with the aid of a tube of KY jelly and the largest rubber mallet in a doctor’s arsenal, couldn’t have driven an anal thermometer into my behind at that moment. I was at the gunwhale in seconds. A brown hand extended, and I grabbed it.

A Navy PBY flying boat on routine patrol accidentally spotted the Indianapolis sailors in the water. It landed, called it in, and started pulling men from the mer. The crusty celluloid captain said that was when he was scaredest, after they’d been seen, and awaited rescue.

I practically leapt in the floating sanction. When I was on board, I collapsed on the deck, totally drained. .

I felt a stinging on my thigh where I’d felt the jolt, and saw a crimson spot. I wiped it off, and blood welled back into it. It wasn’t a cut. It was an abrasion, like sandpaper had filed the skin away.

I saw another boat come to pull us in when I recovered my composure enough to gather my scattered wits. When I went ashore, the owner of the parasail outfit was the first person he spoke to. "You got wet, senor! The boat’s petrol screen was dirty. I can either give your money back, or you can do it again after they change the gasolina filter."

I’d always heard, "If thrown from a horse, get right back on". Also, I’d read, "Do what you fear most, and you will conquer the fear".

"Okay", I said. "I’ll do it again. I’ll go wait my turn in the bar."

It was an all inclusive hotel, so drinks were free. I ordered a glass of red wine. The barkeep got a glass, poured in a dollop of grenadine, a bit of some clear liquor (vodka?),

then topped it off with water. I had a few, to act as ‘Nervine’.

I don’t remember it, but I was told I redid it.

The winch’s wirerope pulled me back on board in Cozumel. I didn’t even get wet.

© Sam E Hime 2001