The rain felt even colder on my back as I struggled to get the surfboard off the rack. The heater in the car had not been a good idea. Once the board was off the car and on my head, however, I was protected from the icy drops. Eager to see the waves, I trotted across the street and onto the beach, but, of course, I could not see more than a few yards into the gray of air and sky. For the first time in my experience, the beach was completely deserted. Plopping the board in the water, I jumped on in a kneeling position and began to paddle out furiously, trying to generate some heat in my cold bones. The rain pelted down hard enough to hurt, my nose, forcing me to put my head down and peer ahead from under my eyebrows. The water was choppy and disorganized as I headed out. The farther I went, the more difficult it became to maintain speed and direction in the face of the strong onshore kona wind. Paddle, paddle, looking down, most of the time, at my board just in front of my knees. The water swept by in swirls. When the front of the board came out of the water, it would appear to be dry because of the wax, but then the board would go awash again as I leaned into another stroke.
Out in the surf, the beach, and the whole island, vanished in a misty wall of rain. This was storm surf, choppy, windy, and completely unpredictable. When I caught a wave, I couldn't tell how it would go, whether it would break or just disappear. Gone were the usual harmonic motions and familiar landmarks. I could have been a thousand miles at sea. The only sounds were those of wind, rain, and waves. My mind began to see fantastic shapes in the waves and in the unvarying gray curtain that hung over me. Imagining sharks patrolling under the disturbed surface of the water, I pulled my arms and legs up and lay flat on the board. A wave suddenly reared, broke, and turned me over. In a panic, I scrambled back on the board like a cat with his ears flattened, afraid to look back. I let the wave action and the wind push me toward shore as I searched for signs of the island, reassurance that I was not adrift on a lonely sea. Relief flooded over me as the hazy outline of a building took shape. My skeg scraped coral. Then the deserted beach appeared, its texture beaten by the rain into millions of miniature craters. A few people hurried along, grotesque and faceless blobs trying to shield themselves from the rain and wind.
Once in the car, I turned the heater back on, with wrinkled fingers, and felt its welcome heat rush out of the vent. I was blue and shivering by the time I headed back to the hospital, again leaning over to the passenger side to see out It was still raining very hard, and the lights of the other cars shot off the wet pavement in broken, scattered paths.
Happiness is a hot shower. Billows of warm vapor filled the stall, washing away the salt and the cold and the stupid little fears my tired mind had conjured up. I stayed there for almost twenty minutes, letting the warm water splash onto the top of my head and run down all the crevices and bumps of my body. As I relaxed, I began to think about how to pass the evening. Sleep. I should sleep. I knew that. But I also had a compulsion to get away from the hospital, to see someone. Karen had said she was not going out, after all. Karen. That was it: I'd park in front of her TV set, drink beer, and let my mind vegetate. Every other night I was off duty the telephone stayed quiet. It was a pleasure to know it wouldn't ring. Tonight was going to be one of the quiet nights. Ahhhh.
I dried myself, slowly and luxuriously, and then padded back to my room with a towel wrapped around my middle. The bed looked tempting, but I was afraid that if I slept for six hours or so and then got up, I wouldn't be able to drop off again. It was better to stay up and sleep later. Then the phone rang. In all innocence, I answered it. I shouldn't have, because it was the intern who was on call. He was in a jam and had to go home for an hour, maybe two at the most. It was a problem that couldn't wait.
"I'm sorry, Peters, but I've got to do it. Would you cover for me?"
"Is there any surgery scheduled?"
"No, none at all. Everything's quiet."
Though the idea of covering made me weak, I couldn't refuse. Ifs a part of the code to help, and who knew? — I might want the favor returned sometime.
"Okay, I'll cover for you."
"God, thanks, Peters. I'll let the operator know you're covering, and I'll be back as soon as possible. Thanks again."
Hanging up, I thought wearily that if I had to go to surgery I'd pass out. I was sure to go to pieces either mentally or physically if faced with a long session of any sort, especially a scrub with somebody like the Supercharger or Hercules or El Almighty Cardiac Surgeon.
In anticipation, I put on my whites, again hoping to ward off evil by excessive preparation. When I called Karen I got no answer, and I vaguely remembered her saying something about eleven, but I couldn't remember exactly. For lack of anything else to do, I lay down and opened a surgical textbook, propping it on my chest. Its weight made breathing a little difficult. Not really concentrating on the book, my mind wandered to Karen. What was she doing at seven o'clock if she wasn't out with her boyfriend? I couldn't say I had much reason to trust her. Still, what did I mean by trust? Why should the word enter into it at all? It was a bit adolescent to speak of trust when we were just a convenience to each other.
I had been lulled to sleep by my reveries when the phone woke me up. The blasted surgical text was still on top of my chest, and I was breathing with my abdominal muscles. It was the emergency room.
"Dr. Peters, this is Nurse Shippen. The operator says you're covering for Dr. Greer."
"That’s right." I reluctantly agreed.
"The intern on duty here is really behind. Would you come down and help out?"
"How many charts are waiting in the basket?"
"Nine. No, ten," she answered.
"Did the intern actually ask for help?" Hell, I'd been ten charts behind every Friday and Saturday night during my months on the emergency service.
"No, but he's quite slow, and—"
"If he gets behind about fifteen or so, and if the intern himself asks for me, then call back."
I hung up, stuffed to the eyeballs with those ER nurses, always pretending to run the show and make the decisions. The ER was that intern's territory; perhaps he would be angry if I suddenly appeared. There was a grain of truth and a pound of rationalization in that, I suppose. Still, during my two months in the emergency room, not once had I asked for help from the on-call intern. I couldn't imagine its being uncontrollably crowded and busy on a Wednesday night. I tried to read a little more, making no headway and growing more nervous and upset. My hands shook slightly — something new — as I balanced the book on my chest. My thoughts raced around disconnectedly from surgery to Karen to the lousy time I had had surfing and back to surgery. Getting up, I went to the toilet, indulging a slight diarrhea— not unusual with me these days.
When the phone rang again, it was the same officious ER nurse saying with satisfaction that the intern had requested help. It so pissed me off that I didn't say anything, just hung up. Before I could even get out of the room, the phone rang once more. It was the nurse asking huffily whether I was coming or not. I summoned as much acid as possible and said that I'd be there if they could possibly handle things while I put on my shoes. It had no effect. She was beyond insult, and I was almost beyond caring, in no hurry to rush over; perhaps by the time I got there things would be quiet. I wouldn't have minded doing a quiet suture or two, something like that. But I was sure to get slugged with a freeway wreck or convulsion.
The rain had passed overhead, and a star or two twinkled between the black violet hulks of heavy clouds. The wind had shifted again, back to the trades, blowing away the kona weather.