Phone Call From The Jungle…
He'd clean up his mess.
He had enough.
He almost drowned before the next phone call from the jungle.
He spent more time listening than speaking at his desk inside his hotel room, hearing his boss back in Sumatra aggressively give his reasons for why there wasn't enough international tourism compared to Hawaii, almost ignoring the complex research and statistics put together by Java on the call and staying awake with caffeine. When it finally ended at 1:37 a.m., he still had plenty of energy, so he went downstairs and used the hotel's gym. Lifting weights, running on a treadmill, and doing mat workouts, he couldn't let go of how much work he had done that in one business phone call was practically disregarded by other people's uneducated opinions.
He hated it, but not Hawaii, in his last few days before he needed to fly back to Sumatra. When he finished using the gym, he noticed the empty swimming pool from outside, wondering if he should try it at 2:19 a.m. He would. He changed into his swim trunks--which he bought when in Kihei--and went to the pool. Outside in the humid nighttime breeze, he swatted away the bugs and insects, approaching the pool's deep end. He found the metal railings that went into the pool, just enough for guests to swim around, and as he climbed into the water, he felt his heart race. He clung to the metal railing, then the pool's stone corners, and gripping the pool's edge, he paddled in place, remembering that he needed to tread water and breaststroke.
He paddled and kicked his legs, growing more confident, and when he steadily pushed himself away from the edge, he was doing it. He was treading water. He was swimming, which made him smile and laugh, but fear struck. He was treading water too far from the edge, so when he tried to reach for the edge, he couldn't and sank into the water. Panicking, he quickly fought to the surface, flapping his arms and kicking his legs, still treading water but doing it distressingly. He stayed where he was, treading, and decided instead of doing a breaststroke, something too ambitious tonight, he would float upon the water.
He swam up and spent the next half minute making sure his body could float on the water's surface, finding its buoyancy, a word he remembered hearing while watching nature TV in his room. He needed to be buoyant, a floater, and float upon the water, which he did--for a little while. His hips sank too much and pulled him into the water again, sounding his panic alarm. Except this time, he struggled to make it to the surface. He swallowed some water, fighting the water for its surface, and by some miracle, he grasped the metal railing and threw up the swallowed water, vomiting on the rough stone surrounding the pool. He gasped and got out, puking right before the metal railing. Breathing heavily, he looked at it, embarrassed, and searched for the nearest toilet.
He'd clean up his mess. He had enough. He almost drowned before the next phone call from the jungle.
