Six Seconds from Death

During their reign from April 1975 to January 1979, it is estimated that the Khmer Rouge caused the death of approximately 1.7 million people. Out of a population of 8 million. That is almost 25% of the population that was either killed by the regime itself and dumped in one of the infamous "Killing Fields" scattered throughout the country, or, more likely, perished due to starvation resulting from the disastrous and inhumane policies of the Mao-inspired Khmer Rouge.

So, as I travel through Asia on my way to the site of so much death, to observe a process established for the very purpose of establishing accountability and truth regarding those killings, perhaps it was written that I myself should come closer to death than at any time in my own life.

You see, on August 30th, I almost died.

Six seconds, I reckon. I was six seconds away from breathing in sea water. Six seconds away from drowning while diving inside a World War Two Japanese cargo wreck off Coron, the Philippines. Six seconds away from freaking dying.

We were diving the Olympia Maru, which had been sunk in a U.S.-air raid. We were twelve minutes into the dive and twelve minutes into the ship. The 100-meter ship had fallen on its starboard side and we were winding our way through the ship's various compartments. There were narrow passages to fit through and sideways doorways to navigate.

And in amidst all this, I ran out of air. For those of you who don't dive, let me just quickly say that there probably could not be a worse place to run out of air than where we were. At first, I didn't quite know what was happening. All I knew was that suddenly, breathing air from the tank strapped to my back was like trying to suck an extra thick milkshake through a plugged straw. After two unsuccessful pulls on my primary regulator, I switched to my backup. But since my tank had run out of air, the backup was empty, too.

I'm out of air. That realization set in instantly and it was terrifying. I had no air in my lungs, because I had exhaled out my last breath in normal anticipation of breathing in more air.

I. Am. Out. Of. Air. And I'm going to die. Honestly, that was my thought process. There were no epiphanies, no flashes of memories lost and now suddenly recalled. Instead, what I was left with was, I cannot believe this is happening. I cannot believe this is where I am going to die.

Frantic, I turned around in the ship's hold and searched for my friend and diving partner Jesse, and I swam to him. I would love to say that I calmly motioned to him that, Hey, I happen to be out of air, so could you please pass me your extra regulator so that I can breathe in air again. But alas, I turned to him in a full panic, forgot how to signal that ohmyfuckinggodiamoutofair, and started groping for his extra regulator. He later said that he saw the panic in my eyes and realized what I was trying to do. He pulled out his extra regulator and passed it to me. And with literally no air in my lungs and my body telling me to breathe in anything- seawater, even!- I took the regulator into my mouth and breathed in air. Six seconds.

Back on shore later that night, I will say that the air smelled a little sweeter, the San Miguel Pilsner seemed a little cooler, and the chicken curry tasted...well, the chicken curry was actually kind of bad. I guess the poor food was my definitive clue that I had not, as of yet, reached the afterlife.

And so I wonder, when I get to Cambodia, for those that survived, is the air still a little sweeter for them; is the breeze still a little cooler; the food more compelling? Or has it all dissipated, lost through decades of corruption, unfilled promises and poverty?