Swimming and Other Hazards of Key West, part II.
“Did you go to Coast Guard medical?” Thompson asked.
It was Sunday, the day after my stingray stab and my colleagues and I were going through the small Key West airport security line that consisted of just us, the only people in Key West who woke up on time for their 8am flight. The three of us were going to training in Yorktown, Virginia. As good friends and Coasties, Thompson and Viyan happily helped me with my bags as I hopped through the metal detector, leaving my crutches to glide through on the x-ray belt.
Viyan was raised in the US, but her parents were Kurdish and came to the US when she was young. She was a badass and was also nice, essentially giving people a chance until they didn’t deserve it anymore. Thompson was a younger white guy, who Viyan and I tended to cut off when his ego came out over the work we all did at the task force. He was all about the Coast Guard, whereas Viyan and I accepted the restrictions and enjoyed the ride.
“Coast Guard medical? No, I didn’t go, I went to the ER. It was Saturday, I don’t even think they are open,” I responded.
“Oh true, they probably would have told you to go to the ER anyway.”
“Not before HS2 pip squeak would have dug around in that wound like he was some kind of surgeon,” Viyan added.
Despite our differences, we all hated dealing with the Coast Guard medical office. Being stationed at a joint task force nearby the Coast Guard base, we rarely engaged with the Coast Guard unit. When we did, we usually accidentally did something out of regulations and our supervisor would get a call.
“Is that the same HS2 who yelled at you for doing CrossFit with your shirt off over there?” I asked.
“You know it. The commander got a call about that one. I overheard him lecturing HS2 about heat stroke,” Thompson said, taking a rare jab at a fellow Coastie.
We finally reached the waiting area for the flights. One large room, with a bar and two doors to the outside, which we would walk out of once our plane was ready. The Key West airline employees were astute, always making sure their drunken passengers did not wander from the door onto the wrong plane.
“Well, we made it. Walsh, where do you want to sit?”
“Anywhere,” I replied, “I just need to put my foot up.”
We waited, each of us sleepy. Our flight was finally called and I grabbed my crutches and backpack.
“Let me help you with that, little lady,” a sunburned man, who would normally be pale, wore an oversized tank top and motioned to my backpack.
“Uh, ok.” I was high on painkillers and my bandaged foot was throbbing. I figured I would be leaning on my colleagues enough the next two weeks, might as well let this guy help me out.
“Where ya’all headed?” he asked.
“Virginia,” I responded.
“Yeah, we are musicians,” Viyan added, before Thompson could slyly mention something about intelligence, “just another stop on the tour!”
“Oh, ya’all played here in Key West?” he asked.
“We did! Made the rounds to The Porch, The Green Parrot…”
The conversation continued as we walked up the steps to the plane. I was the lead singer and I guess this morning we were in a band. Viyan adlibbed like a professional. We both had gotten bored over the years with tourist questions of what it was like to live down here so usually made up something lively to keep us engaged. Last week, another friend artfully explained the seasonal aspect of hibiscus plants after we had decided we would be florists for the night.
The flight was fine, there was an empty seat next to me so I managed to elevate my poor foot.
“Damn, if your foot was a fish, it would be dead for sure,” Thompson commented when he saw the swelling as I rewrapped it during the flight.
The week of training was a blur. It was intelligence-related and luckily all desk work except for one wander outside into a fake boat boarding scene. I had brought black tennis shoes to wear with my uniform since I couldn’t fit into a boot quite yet.
Wow, these shoes are nice, so light, I thought as I stumbled around, easing myself off the crutches.
By the weekend, I was walking. Viyan and I both had family in northern Virginia so we passed on the weekend drunken antics and took a rental car up north. My nephew was born a few months ago and I still hadn’t seen him.
“I didn’t know he was here! No wonder you didn’t want to postpone attending this training,” Viyan and I chatted during the car ride.
“Right? What if I had gone to medical and they said I couldn’t fly, I would be devastated! He’s such a cutie, look,” I showed her photos my sister had sent.
Viyan dropped me off for an awesome weekend with family. I had been in New York, then a long intelligence training, then Key West. It had been a few years since I had real family time that I was ready to appreciate.
My little precious nephew snuggled up in my arms, I could get used to this.
On Sunday, I packed back up to return to another week of Yorktown training, then would fly back to Key West. Before Viyan picked me up, I was feeling good and decided to go for a jog. I hadn’t worked out in nearly a week and without a need to take the pain pills anymore, I was getting antsy.
It didn’t hurt too badly, I did a few hills, then jogged back to the house.
“Where did you go to?” my sister asked.
“Oh, just down to the creek and back.”
“Carrie, that’s over four miles, shouldn’t you be taking it easy?” she questioned.
“I’m fine, look, it doesn’t hurt. I can still walk. I’m going to shower and get ready to go.” I said.
We said our good-byes and I squeezed and kissed my little nephew. “I’ll see you soon, little buddy,” I whispered to him and gave him one last smooch on the cheek.
Viyan came to pick me up and drove us back to base and we reminisced about how great our weekends were, how we hadn’t felt so relaxed in a while.
“I guess the Margarita Mondays aren’t an exact exchange for a family dinner.”
I put my foot up on the dashboard. My shoe was starting to feel tight, I figured it was just from sitting in the car a few hours. We arrived to the base, I opened the passenger door to get out and nearly collapsed when I put weight on my previously injured foot as a stepped out.
Oh shit.
I leaned on the car and did my best to walk to the trunk to get my bags.
“Are you ok?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, just a little stiff from the drive,” I grabbed my backpack and accepted that I would have a very painful walk back to my room.
“Why don’t you lean on me up the stairs?” Viyan offered.
“I’m good, I’m good,” I claimed, then took another painful step, “ok, actually yeah, thanks,” I held on to her shoulder the rest of the way up.
"What happened? I thought you were good?” Viyan said.
"Me too, um, I don’t know. I’ll ice it tonight,” I went into my barracks room and sat on the bed, frantically taking off my shoe that had started cutting off my circulation. When I finally got it off, I saw my foot was red, huge, and puffy.
Ah fuck.
I texted Viyan and told her I’d probably be a little late for class because I was going to go to the medical office on base in the morning. That night, I took the spare pain pills and slept with two pillows under my leg in attempt to elevate it and relieve the swelling.
“Whoa! Miss IS2 Walsh, you did quite a number on this thing,” the friendly HS at Yorktown motioned for the doctor to come over.
“When, what, how did this happen Miss Walsh?” the doctor asked, rightfully confused how this would happen during a land-based training in Yorktown. I explained the whole story.
“So you didn’t go to medical in Key West?” he asked.
"Uh, no," I said.
“Ok,” he waived it off as unimportant, “what is happening is the poison from the stingray sting is reactivating inside your foot from your ‘light jog.’ You’re going to be in some pain the next few days, possibly more than the initial healing phase. Just promise me when training is over you’ll go to your medical unit in Key West or I’m going to look bad.”
“Sure, I promise. I’ll go them.” I said and continued on with a week of blurry training and crutches. I felt like an idiot that I was a liability once again.
We landed back in Key West. I used the crutches, but was ready to ease off them over the next few days. Thompson, Viyan, and I all shared a taxi and were at our homes within about ten minutes. That was one perk of the small island.
“IS2,” the HS2 in Key West firmly addressed me without regard for my name. I guess it was fair, I did the same to him. It was Monday morning, the clinic was hot and humid and the tile floor was sticky, “what are you in here for? Why are you on crutches? When did this happen?” he began his interrogation.
“Two weeks ago?” I regretfully explained.
“Two weeks! The doctor is not going to like this,” HS2 got his ‘bad cop side kick’ status from the equally bad cop doctor who was definitely going to be offended that I did not come into the medical office sooner. Why isn’t there a good cop here?
I got reprimanded throughout the appointment for not going into medical and of course, my commander got a call the next day.
“IS2 Walsh, please come see me in the office when you have a break,” the commander called over the watch floor at work the next week. I got up and walked over to his office door.
“Caroline,” he said, “next time something happens medically, please go see Coast Guard medical.”
“Ok.” I said. I held my breath waiting for something else.
“Ok,” he said, “get back to work. Also, don’t stand next time you’re doing open water swimming. You should know better than that.”
With that, I was left on my own to heal, not trying another jog for a least a month. The next open water swim, Jen and I stopped at our usual spot where the stingray incident had first happened. We treaded water and I put my face down to see below. There, with the turquoise tint, was my large, gray, graceful friend, just gliding around his home turf as if nothing had happened.
Caroline Walsh’s comedic memoir, Fairly Smooth Operator: My Life Occasionally at the Tip of the Spear, is available for preorder September 2021. Visit carolinenw.com or follow her on Instagram to keep up.