My forearm and my booty (seriously) lit up with pain. It was intense, acute and immediate. I snatched my goggles and looked under water, determined to kill what I assumed was a jellyfish.
What followed was anticlimactic and confusing. With searing pain coursing through my body and adrenaline pumping, I saw nothing there- just innocent-looking coral that I had fallen on top of.
I would find out later it was fire coral, closely related to jellyfish but MUCH more painful.
First, tiny white welts popped up everywhere, then all of a sudden my legs started cramping like they never had before and it became almost impossible to tread water.
This is how I die, so I thought.
“Hey, uhhhh Matt?” I was impressed by how cool and casual I managed to sound, like I was about to ask him what time it was or something.
“I think something burned me. Or stung me. I’m not sure.”
*Nice delivery Christina…Just like a really cool chick would*
His face and voice changed.
“What? Where?” he said, his face twisted up with concern. I lifted my arm out of the water.
I continued, “I can’t swim.”
Enter Military Matt.
He brought the dinghy over and grabbed my hand, pulling my whole body out of the water in one swift motion. WITH ONE ARM. He started asking me questions: where it hurt, how it happened, if I was nauseous and found my pressure points hoping to alleviate some pain.
I was torn between feeling guilty that he was taking me so seriously and wanting badly to impress him. I thought of his combat experience. I thought of dinghies on D-DAY. I thought of how I was brought to my knees by a creature that can’t move. The Many. The Shameful. The People Who Burn Themselves On Vacation. We all have our place.
“You’re doing really great,” he said. If I was honest with myself, it was the worst pain I’d ever felt.
He dropped me off where our group exhausted the first aid supplies on my now horribly deformed behind and right arm — which is a great way to really get to know people. Matt was getting ready to take the dinghy back out when a friend called to him.
“Where you going?”
“To find medicine.”
“What are you going to just tie up to random boats?” Our group was laughing and joking, but Matt wasn’t.
He came back with South African antibiotics, which I took with minimal questioning. It could have been ecstasy, but fortunately, it wasn’t. He cleaned and bandaged my arm, which was not only burned, but cut. He helped me manage the pain.
This Matt was a far cry from my rum-drinking partner-in-crime of the night before.
Later that night, in our tiny nautical bathroom, I was applying Neosporin to the burn and became frustrated I couldn’t see it all.
“Can I help?” he was softened by now, less serious than that afternoon but still earnest, oozing a sincerity that was entirely new to me.
“That wouldn’t scar you for life?”
“Are you kidding, it would be awesome!”
It dawned on me. He’s flirting with me. I was swollen and half bandaged, with skin that was deformed, bubbled up and ugly. And here he was, flirting with me.
Ever since I handed him the Neosporin that night, he’s been finding ways to take care of me.
He’s quite literally got my back — because Matt’s got a knack for getting me into and then promptly out of trouble.
The way he sees it, that’s this Marine’s job.
