Wasp

That azure in the windless mornings at the half tide. Slap of wave, the pervasive sea sound under the bank of coral rag on which are built the huts of Alkanaan’s place. We had dived Kichafi the reef out front which, in those days, I knew every contour. In March on Kichafi with the still clear prism the whole of the scene is seen from the first underwater breath. Eleven to eighteen metres so we had stayed long for the guests liked that and I would be more conscious of them having paid good money than a dive master aware of wages, lunch and safety.




Thus tired we were back on land, the mid morning sun hot, sticky, some shimmer. Did I see shimmer? Or was that wobbling something else, a sudden mistiming of the pump. Eline tided the dive place meticulously as she did. Sweden. I went to look at reception so as to sit in the shade, saying I can de-gas a bit, let the nitrogen leave me.



There is a natural beauty of the place on the spring half tide. I looked out at that view and said I must leave, it is lotus eating and I am addicted. The black wasp, with a hanging belly, quivering legs dropped from the roof, a quaver of wings and then a big sting originating in the back of my neck. These black killers frightened guests, even the owner AlKanaan who worried as mothers do for her children. They most often surveyed but they stung often enough to have stung me many times through those wasted years. They mostly stung, men who seeing the threat and feeling fear would flap at them, but I was used to them and like some pain to be sensation when love is barren.



I had noticed my reaction to the stings had been greater of late. There had been a rapid swelling and a loss of feeling in my arm the last two occasions. But this wasp, getting a pulsing blood vessel in the neck had hit the spot.



Within a minute the heart pump had become fast. The wobble in the view, the shimmer was not the brightness or the long predicted event. It was a result of awasp sting. I instructed myself as I had learnt in the many first aid courses we conducted: talk to oneself.



I walked, whilst I could, to Eline. “Be calm. Give clear and low sounding instructions, use the cycle of care”



“Elin” She looked up, I noted quizzical. “I need to get to the clinic very quickly, I would like you to come, I will be unable to drive, please ask Hilali to drive.” I was pleased to see her expression change to worried.



I stopped by my cave to put on some pants which even at the time I knew to be foolish but compulsory. I got in the car, the front seat. Hilali drove at his standard speed of less than ten clicks an hour. The clinic is a ten minute drive and quite often staffed. Along the road my sight went, not all blackness but as I remember whiteness, as in staring too long too close to the sun. My speech failed but I could hear clearly, Eline: “Hang on Mike, hang on, don’t go before we get there.” I shall endeavour though it has certainly become very difficult to breathe and that pump is not functioning well at all.



At the clinic I was able with help to get out of the car, be guided through the door, onto the examination couch which had the cool, sticky and sexual feel of what I have always called leatherette. I could not see, nor speak nor breathe, felt now the fear that I presume precedes death- not as intense as I had expected- but I could hear very well. I was surprised that hearing should keep going when all other sense failed.



The doctor was reassuringly matter of fact. “He is probably suffering from an anaphylactic shock. We will check his blood pressure”. It takes a while to check blood pressure, I dreamt whilst he set up the machine.



“50 over 25. That is very low. Very bad. We will set up a cortisone drip.” Bad, that is terrible. I noticed another pulse of fear. My mother will be very sceptical when she is told I was killed by a wasp.



The Doctor jabbed my torso with his finger. “See, he is flinching. He feels pain, That is because his organs are failing.” Then silence except for the very loud sound of three other people breathing. It would be very delicious ironic to hear one of them say “He’s gone.” I have heard nurses say that. But I heard instead the sound of the blood pressure pump and that long wait whilst the dial reached its zenith and fell. “See, 90 over 40. He is coming back.”



My sight came back suddenly, or I opened my eyes and could see. I took a while to risk speaking but I remember being pleased to notice that I was not trying to breathe. The pump still thumped, rocking my ribs but to better effect. At 120 over 70 I wanted the blood pressure to stop rising, maybe I could use wasp venom to keep the BP down.



The Doctor said “rest, and certainly no beer for at least 24 hours.” Back in the bar I was pole axed by the first gulp of Kili. These brushes with the reaper always leave me a feeling that I should be more pro active in seeking out my foes.