My Snorkel Tried to Kill Me in Hawaii

A true story and probably also a neurodivergent metaphor in there somewhere.

So, my two sons have glasses, right? One needs them in a “good for his eyes” sort of way and the other needs them in a “can’t see further than a foot from his face sort of way.” Now, this is normally not an issue when it comes to family activities. But this Hawaii trip provided a unique challenge. We couldn’t find an affordable way for “foot-from-face” son to snorkel.

We went online shopping (as one is apt to do in times of mild inconvenience) and the first thing that popped up was “use a full-face mask.”

The mask looks essentially like a gas mask with a snorkel. It’s weird but promising. Husband then found one on sale (red flag number one) and we ordered it after briefly scanning through the thousands of reviews. All of which were generally positive. (red flag number two)

Cut to us in Hawaii.

Despite the mask fitting him at home, the mask was now, “too uncomfortable” to fit our oldest once we arrived at the beach. It wouldn’t work for him.

Pssh, silly me, of course it wouldn’t.

In a rare stroke of luck it turns out he was perfectly happy snorkeling without his glasses. I guess the water helps with his vision enough that he can see better than above the surface.

After some shuffling of our available masks, our youngest ended up with the full mask. He and I went out and did a test run in the shallows of Kahalu’u, and after a while he started saying he was tired and had a headache, so we swam back in to shore.

A few snacks and water, some sitting, and getting good and fomo-ed while watching husband and older brother, wee-one was rearing to get back out there.

Masks were shuffled again.

Luckily, the small face mask that I was using worked really well for him and the full-face mask fit me shockingly well.

Woot woot for having a family of large headed children.

Husband and oldest son had been circling in the same spot within the shallows, so we head toward them. A distraction of yellow tangs stalls us for a bit and when we looked back up, I realized that our targets had sprint-snorkeled themselves off to a new location.

Given how long they had been at the first spot, I didn’t both stopping to check how far we were from them and just aimed us their direction and started guiding wee-one along.

Halfway to them I started getting a headache. I stopped to try and adjust my straps and found that I was already breathing really heavily.

After a moment of self-cursing for letting myself get so out of shape I stopped in a shallow area for a bit so I could “fix” my mask and to check and make sure wee-one was still happy and good to keep going (ie, he didn’t have a splitting headache like me).

He was irritated we stopped and, in what would be a horrible oversight on my part, my brain gave me a small flicker of foreshadowing:

Huh…I wonder if it is this particular mask that is causing headaches…

This was of course immediately followed up by a momentary musing over the validity of giving up on snorkeling due to mask comfort level.

….Pssh. Suck it up buttercup.

That would be red flag numbers three and four for those counting.

Husband and oldest are now past where I can still stand up but are circling and bobbing up to chat for a bit, so I start swimming us in their direction again.

Almost immediately, things start to go weird. (Red flag numero five). The mask gets foggy, and my head starts pounding.

Gaaaah. This is what I get from buying on Amazon.

I stop me and the wee wiggle worm of a son to rinse out my mask, reasoning that I must have screwed up when I adjusted it with one hand earlier. This time I take the extra step of using two hands to put it back on.

Unfortunately, whilst I am absorbed in my two-handed mask futzery, my companion gets impulsive.

Wee one —now free from my anchoring grip — wriggles off toward his dad and brother who are now solidly in an area where I won’t be able to stand up.

Groaning, I slam my mask back on, ignore the still foggy view and the now drill-like headache, and race to catch up to my son. While on my trek to scolding my adventurous danger-boy, I vaguely ponder if something might be wrong with me because something is feeling a bit “off.” (Red flag number 6)

After an oh so generous four breaths wearing the mask, I went to pull in air on a fifth and nothing happened.

No air, no movement of valves, no anything. It was like I was inhaling against Saran Wrap.

Shocked and about to gag I yanked the mask off and swam with it in my hand over to where I could finally grab wee one’s ankle. He was already off course and was now giggling and flippering toward a jagged rock getting pummeled by the increasingly tough surf.

Apparently, he DOES need those glasses.

I pulled him over and growled at him to stay next to me while I fixed my mask. I couldn’t stand up where we were anymore and the distance it would be for us to go back to where I could stand was the same as it would be to get to husband. So I deal with it.

I still was having trouble getting my mask on with one hand — because I sure as hell wasn’t going to let little distract-a-boy go off to try and hug a lava rock — but after a frantic moment of awkward jerking around and hair pulling while I treaded water, I got my mask to work again. No longer foggy and no longer malfunctioning I swam us toward husband one last time.

I was embarrassingly proud that I had solved my problem without husband’s help. Delirious really.

In fact. I was overjoyed with my accomplishment.

Overjoyed by life.

The waves are so pretty.

I feel so happy, and the water is so soft and warm, I feel like a nap…

(Fucking gigantic red flag number seven)

A shift in the current snagged us and dragged us out in husband’s direction. Unfortunately, it also dragged them even farther from us.

A tiny glimmer of panic sliced through my joy and it jolted me back to reality. On instinct, I squashed that shit into the back of my brain. But it had given me the slap across the face I needed to focus on a new plan.

I aimed myself toward a choppier place in the water where I was sure I’ll be able to stand up. I yelled at husband to come in and take wee one so I can fix my mask.

As I would later find out, my presumed shallow spot was non-existent. I still have no idea what I thought I was swimming toward.

On the way to the “shallows,” my mask failed again. This time however, when I pulled it off I didn’t bother to put it back on because the eighth and final flag straight up skewered me in the lung.

I was starting to have an asthma attack.

Giving up on my “shallows” I used all my remaining energy to torpedo my son toward my husband. Wee one and our oldest happily greeted each other while I spluttered at my confused husband about my mask not working, me needing to fix it so I could go to shore, and how he needed to take the kids.

Husband nodded with a raised eyebrow as he looked me over carefully and guided wee one closer to him.

I used both hands to check the valves and snorkel on the mask and adjusted the straps, focused on fulfilling the plan I had just planned out loud to my husband. And apparently unaware of the fact that I had just two seconds ago realized the mask triggered an asthma attack.

CO2 poisoning is no joke ya’ll.

I try one last time to get the mask back to a proper snug fit on my face and I turn to go back to shore. As you probably expected, a half of a breath later, after sucking on Saran Wrap again, I felt my vision narrow significantly and I started to get dizzy.

I ripped off the mask and got a mouthful of ocean water as I gasped for air. I blindsided the panic rushing into my mind before it could take over (probably not a smart idea) and demanded that my mind ignore the fact that my legs and arms felt like dead weight and my heart was squeezing my throat in fear.

No. You pull your shit together body. We aren’t doing this.

Body had zero fucks left to give so it continued to feel dangerously weak. Husband yelled at me through my delirium, “Cayse, Float! Float honey, float on your back!”

“Oh. Right.”

My brain lazily acknowledges this with some extremely overdue reasoning.

I can float because son is safe now. Yay for me. I should have done that sooner. Why did I not think of that fucking SOONER?!?

This was the point that I realized that it wasn’t just an asthma attack.

Looking back at the situation, I’m assuming that this is what my panic was probably rushing in to tell me. But being so used to having to squash my panic attacks, I didn’t even bother to think that my limbic system could be using them for a good reason.

I flipped over to try and float, and was successful for all of a minute. The waves were gaining strength as quickly as was I losing mine, and sleep was truly starting to sound like bliss.

Lucky for me, this lack of strength allowed my PTSD trained survival mode to snap to the forefront.

As ever, it comes with a personality and mental commentary all its own. Its name is “she.” As in “she is fucking done with my shit.”

She: WHAT IN THE EVER-LIVING FUCK HAVE YOU DONE TO US?!

She grabs control and my breathing starts evening out instantly. But even while trying to calmly breathe and float, I still somehow was not getting enough air.

Me: I can’t breathe. Should I breathe quicker not deeper? Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

She: CALM DOWN MORON!

Now here’s the thing. My brain splitting? She providing snarky commentary, and tossing my prior piss-poor plan? Not remembering my asthma? Yeah, all that should NOT have been the first point at which I started to consider hailing the lifeguard. But it was. Because hindsight is a bitch like that.

No longer trying to put my mask back on —which had just been dosing me with CO2 — my lungs were finally getting actual oxygen into our blood.

Time slowed and as my concentration increased, “She” and “Me” were joined by a third mental counterpart. I call them Bombard.

Bombard: Awww, leave her alone you big bully. Me is trying her best.

She: Are you even WATCHING what is happening?!

Bombard: Of course, I am. What? Can’t you see her flailing about? Lifeguard is sure to see us. Why don’t you go mull over our shame of purchasing our own demise through a two-day Amazon prime order?

She: Oh. My. God. STOP BEING DISTRACTING AND HELP SAVE US YOU WORTHLESS DIPSHIT!

Me: Wait, I have something…

I slam my brain back into one piece and the following plan comes to mind:

Ok, first, keep that slow breath. Box breathe. Good. Now call out to husband. Tell him to swim the boys to me. I can gently hang on to the edge of their life jackets while I float on my back. My floating weight distributed between the two jackets shouldn’t pull the kids down, and since they have functioning masks on anyway, there is no danger of them getting pulled lower into the water by half an inch. And this will then give us time to hail the lifeguard while my strong-swimmer husband swims our linked chain of floating bodies back to where I could stand up on my own.

Brain still in one piece and all parts satisfied with my competence, I enact my brilliant plan.

Unfortunately, “body” has not given my talking mouth parts any of our newfound oxygen yet.

“I need to float on the kids!”

Bombard: [bursts out laughing]

She: We are going to die.

I wince and wait for husband’s reaction while trying to keep my head above the water.

Naturally, husband looked at me like I was a crazy person. Thinking he must think I was wanting to do it just for fun, I ignored the continued bickering in my brain and me, and my body swam to the closest kid. I flipped on my back and tried to show him my plan by floating and hanging on to the smallest corner of my youngest son’s jacket.

This, to my deep relief is perfectly effective.

She: Holy shit it works.

Bombard: See? Never doubted her. Let me know if we start drowning again. Imma go take care of that nap.

I should note that wee one was perfectly happy looking at the fish. Entirely unaware that mommy was quite close to being down there with them.

Husband then tells me to let go of him and to just swim over to where I can stand up.

I look up, confused.

Me: Hold up. Have I genie-blinked my way closer to the shore?

Bombard: Sweet, I’m in. I shall swim us over to participate in husband’s much better plan. Come on body, you’re with me now.

She: You impossible idiot. You are still having an asthma attack. You can’t make it there. Just. Float.

“Stand up and get your mask on.” I hear husband say.

“But I can’t breathe in it!”

Bombard: Hey! Kids don’t need their mouthpieces.

She: That’s true. Kids are fine and with Husband. 6-year-old isn’t even using his anymore.

“Sweetie, can mommy have your breathing tube? Mine doesn’t work anymore.”

“Okay!”

Husband looks concerned as I grab ONLY the tube.

“Cays, what are you doing?! I was talking to Oldest-son! What are you—You need goggles!”

“No, I don’t need to see. I just need to breathe.”

Without waiting, I start trying to swim with my legs only. One arm holding the tube, the other still holding that damn mask.

Keeping my eyes open in saltwater wasn’t enjoyable, but it wasn’t horrible.

Me: What the fuck body, why are you not breathing through the tube?

She: Nose isn’t plugged you moron. And your focus is fucking shit right now if you haven’t noticed. We need the whole mask.

Me: Shit.

She: Yeah, bitch. Way to go because now we are going to blackout.

Bombard: could be fun.

Me: This isn’t helping. [slams our brain back into one piece]

I pop back up out of the water. Now fully in delirium, and I manage to shout a: “nope,” to my husband.

A second wave of panic and adrenaline hits me as I flip over to float again, I reach back out to hold the jacket of younger son and close my eyes.

Me: Box-breathe. Come on. Box-breathe.

She: Goddamnit heart. Why are YOU freaking out? Calm the fuck down. You aren’t helping.

Me: What if we drown in front of our kids?

She: Fuck that shit. Not an option.

Bombard: Yeah. We are not drowning, chill out.

I start focusing on breathing slower and deeper and I hand 6-year-old his tube back. I grab for the corner of kiddo’s life jacket again, vaguely aware that my dysfunctional mask is still in my other hand but is now drifting in a single direction… as if we are being pulled.

Bombard: You know, come to think of it, that thing is probably why we couldn’t swim right with just the tube… man. We should have thought of that. We need help.

She: Oh fuck. You’re worried? We need help. We need help now.

“Get help.” I call out to husband.

“You can float.” I hear him respond.

“Get. Help.” I demand.

“It’s okay, stop, just float, you’re okay.” I hear him say in a gentler tone.

“Get. Me. Help.” I growl.

“We don’t need help.” He says in an infuriatingly calm and almost grateful voice.

“I need help!!! I need to at least float with the kids!” I scream.

“Cayse, he’s here! Look up! Grab on to that.” he yells back.

I looked up to see a guy on a surfboard staring at me, my husband is behind him, swimming backward with our sons and talking much louder to me:

“Let go of the jacket and grab his board.”

Apparently, lifeguard man had started to swim out to help as soon as he saw me struggle to float.

What I thought had been a back and forth about whether I needed help was actually my husband trying to calm the kids down, telling them to just float, and him telling the lifeguard that he and the boys “didn’t need help.”

I hauled myself onto the board.

She: Why the fuck is surfer man scooting back on his board.

Bombard: Shark?

My husband, “Lay down on the board.”

Surfer man, “it’s ok. She’s fine. You guys good?”

“Yeah, we’re fine. I can stand.”

Me: oh yay! I’m glad he can stand.

Bombard: Pssh, we could if we wanted to.

I shift my mask to sit on the board under my head, bringing more of my torso above the water as I wrap my arms around it. I close my eyes again and focus on breathing.

Me: It’s a little better. Maybe I’ll swim after them in a minute.

She: Explain yourself you idiot. He just saved our ass.

“I was floating. And the mask wouldn’t work.”

“Yeah. I saw.”

Me: Guys! He saw! Oh good. I am happy he saw. I am also happy to rest my head and arms around the mask on the board. I don’t want it anymore, but…

Bombard: It does make a shockingly comfy pillow.

Me: Right?

She: Stop being comfortable. We need to pay for this. Apologize.

“I’m really sorry. My mask stopped working and I couldn’t breathe.”

“Yeah, that happens.”

“I’m sorry you had to use your board.”

“It’s okay. It got pretty rough out here huh?”

Bombard: excuse me? Is this mother fucker judging us?

She: Yeah, he can fuck right off with that shit. It was the fucking mask that screwed us over.

Me: I know, right? This has nothing to do with me swimming in rough water or going too far out.

Bombard: little punk. We knew what we were doing.

She: Me? Shut it. I’ll address all that with you later. Bombard? Lower your hackles. We just need to clarify.

“The mask just stopped giving me air.”

“Ah, I see. Yeah, ones like that are notorious for it. We call them death masks.”

“Oh, well that’s good to know. They should tell people that.”

“Yeah. They really should.”

Me: The board is warm. I want to stop talking.

Bombard: Do it. We don’t need Lifeguard Ken to feel better about himself at our expense. He’s dead to me.

She: Bombard. We need him.

Me: Hold on. What is that?

I hear the loudspeaker echoing off of the wave break.

“All snorkelers should come closer to the shore. No beginners or adults with children should go past the buoys.”

Me: Are they saying that because of me?

She: Yes, and you deserve it. You should be embarrassed.

Bombard: Well, I’M not embarrassed, the morons that made the death mask should be the ones embarrassed.

Lifeguard interrupts my thoughts and the loudspeaker, “Can you feel the sand yet?”

I shift my mind to combine into a more solid single awareness without having to slam us into a single entity. This is my natural state. I have enough oxygen to keep myself here. A spine-tingling sense of joy runs through me, and I choke off a whimper of relief as I tentatively return to what my body is feeling.

I can feel the warm water against me, the sharp corners of the mask jabbing into my throat, and the waxy pull of the surfboard chaffing my inner arms. My lungs are burning, still stuck in a mild asthmatic flair, but no longer worsening.

I hadn’t been aware of how much I had retreated into my head until that moment and quickly shut off all of my emotions before my mind started processing everything.

I focus on feeling the grit of the sand below my feet. I start to stand.

“Yes, I can make it from here.”

“It’s a little slippery.”

“It’s ok. I’m ok now. Thank you.”

“I’d stay on shore.”

“Yup. And throw away the mask.”

Surfer laughs, “good idea. I hope you have a better day.”

“I will thanks to you.”

Surfer laughs again. I still can’t look at him. But I’m not embarrassed. I watch as multiple pairs of adults and children are swimming back to shore. I watch my husband help our sons onto the beach and my mind doesn’t debate with me that I should be anything but thankful.

She: Oh no. You aren’t getting out of this with zen sentiments.

Bombard: Yeah, I am a bit embarrassed actually. We do not look cool right now.

Me: Shut up. I’ll deal with you all later.

I stand up, brush some sand off myself and adjust my tangled swim shirt. Roughly, I grab the mask off of the sand where I had chucked it at some point, I start walking to the boys with a forced smile while my inner mind starts arguing about whether or not I have my inhaler with me and whether I can drive.

I don’t care. All that matters is that I don’t have to wear this dumb mask anymore.