The Time I Almost Died
By JL Copeland
Alright?
Crumbs, already the end of October. Time is hyperspacing by.
Every month, we turn over the Countryfile calendar, and The Boy asks me to guess what the next animal photograph will be, and every time, I say the same thing:
‘Dinosaur.’
‘Daddy, the dinosaurs are all dead,’ he chastises, for the 28th time.
Indeed they are, son. Indeed they are. Even this dinosaur came close once.
Because it’s Halloween, and I wanted to tell you a scary story. My wife almost making a murderer’s long list still creeps me out, but I’ve already told that one. You’ve probably read Inheritance, too. I’ve wracked my noggin, but the well is dry.
So yes, I thought I’d tell you about the closest I ever came to joining the choir invisible.
I should pre-warn you that this is a drunken tale. Drunken tales are inherently boring, but needs must. I promise this is the first and last I’m gonna tell.
Music for this post? Well, here’s a spooky oddity for All Hallow’s Eve:
I’ve done many foolish things in my life. That ‘L’ in my initials could stand for Loony, Lunkhead, or even Lemming. However, considering what was at stake, the following misadventure probably tops the list.
It was back in August 2013. I was thirty-two years old. Old enough to know better.
I was also in a band. We were called The Young Poons, and of course, we were awesome.
I played bass. I’m actually a guitarist. However, when I auditioned, the leader told me my guitar-playing was shite, but they still had a vacancy for bass. I signed up.
This is one of the few surviving photos from the time. Yes, that blur second from the left is me, I swear:
If you’re interested, this is one of our better recordings.
Anyway, that summer night, we’d played a show in Itaewon (the expat mecca of Seoul). The other guys had gone home, leaving me to keep our band leader company.
This was already a bad idea.
Our leader was such a hard drinker he probably considered paint thinner a ‘light beer.’
At around 4 AM, I guided him to the door of the bar. By this point, I estimated that his blood was about 95% vodka / 5% Cass Lemon. I kept him well clear of the smokers outside in case he burst into flames.
I’d matched one drink to his three, so was well worse for wear, too. We parted, and I zigzagged down towards the Hannam Bridge, Seoul’s neon lights swaying in the darkness.
Despite the weight of my bass guitar pulling my inebriated arse towards the pavement, I had decided to forgo a taxi and instead walk home. It was only, what, 7 miles.
I shit 7 miles, my alcohol-addled brain machoed.
I crossed the bridge over the River Han, bewitched by the dark eddies below.
The Han is a meaty river that winds through Seoul. Its average width is well over a thousand yards (about five times that of the Thames, a little narrower than the Hudson).
Yes, you can already guess where this is going.
I wasn’t even halfway across the bridge when I decided I was going to swim it.
Not ‘someday.’
Not next weekend.
Right now.
Some background: although I was reasonably fit, I was not much of a swimmer. I probably polluted the local pool once, maybe twice a year.
Even if you’d offered a sober, well-rested version of me 500 bucks to swim the Han for a dare, I still would have baulked.
But in my current state, I had the mental faculties of a jar of Smucker’s Goober Grape, the confidence of a GPS directing your Honda Civic up the back of El Capitan.
In short, I liked my odds.
I crossed the bridge and worked my way down to the park and cycle path that run along either side of the river.
I stripped down to my shorts and stashed my bass, clothes, wallet, ID, phone – EVERYTHING in a bush.
Thank God this was Korea. In London, my things would have been nicked before I’d even entered the water.
No, to be more accurate, if this were London, I would have been jumped crossing the bridge and rinsed of my valuables before I’d even devised this ludicrous wheeze.
Can you swim in the Han River?
I was about to find out. I lowered myself in from a large boulder. It was surprisingly warm.
People don’t really swim in the Han. I later learned that there was one small, designated swimming place, further to the East.
It wasn’t popular. Koreans sometimes described the river as ‘dong-mul’ or ‘poo-water.’
Enticing.
There wasn’t anyone about, so I took my time. I did a bit of freestyle, a bit of backstroke. I drifted with the current and admired the ice-blues of the lightening sky over Namsan Tower.
After twenty minutes, the novelty had worn off. I was also tired. Not far to go, right? I focused on the far bank.
I was barely halfway there.
I swam a little more. The bank didn’t get any closer.
Shit.
That old chestnut you hear that fear sobers you? Well, I don’t know about that, but something kicked in.
I was in trouble.
I had made one of those ‘fatal errors’ I’d watch on that Fascinating Horror YouTube channel, before blokes (it’s usually blokes; women are too switched-on to do stupid shit like this) become body-counts.
I knew I mustn’t panic. If I panicked, they’d be fishing me out black and bloated, with crabs crawling out of my arsehole.
Do not die like this, you moron.
I lay on my back and floated and thought.
I made a plan.
I’d turn over, count fifty breaststrokes, then float and rest for two minutes. Then I’d repeat the process until I made it to the other side. Whatever happened, I had to keep calm.
And so I began the attempt to save my sorry ass.
I remember at one time lying on my back, wondering what my wife would think if I drowned; whether she’d think it was suicide.
After three years living with me, if the roles were reversed, I would have definitely assumed suicide.
I swam some more.
I floated and wondered whether I’d make the news for the most stupid reason imaginable. How my parents would react. How short my pointless life had been.
I wondered if—for the amusement of onlookers—while I ruminated on our fragile mortality, a barge would run over my head.
I swam some more. The bank grew closer.
But there’s one memory that really sticks, and when you read this, you’re going to scoff.
You’re going to say, they must really put some wacky shit in that crappy Korean beer, or suggest I’d been smoking something, too.
I’m lying on my back again, and I hear a splish-splash.
I turn my head to the right, and a fish comes jumping towards me: splish, out of the water, splash, into the water.
Splish, out.
Splash, in.
Closer.
Splish, out.
Splash, in.
Closer still.
Then it jumps right over my head (in the movie, this bit would be in slow-motion) and disappears.
It really happened. I shit you not.
Call it a sign, call it a coincidence, call it whatever you want, but that was the moment I knew I was going to make it.
By the time I got to the other side, it was light.
With the sheer euphoria of survival, I skipped down the cycle path, overjoyed.
I’M ALIVE!
I’M ALIVE!
I’d been in the water for over an hour.
A few early morning exercisers regarded this wild-eyed, mud-streaked and bare-chested foreigner with not a little concern.
I didn’t care.
I tore across the bridge, collected my gear and hailed a taxi. What a story I had to tell my wife!
Suffice to say, she wasn’t impressed.
She was even less impressed with the weird lesions and rashes that developed on my legs as the week went on.
I showed them to my sister-in-law. She simply said, ‘Dong-mul.’
I’m not a believer in fate, yet to this day I believe I was supposed to die that night. That all of this, the kids, this writing life, even these blogposts, are all a mistake.
Although you’ve probably already come to that conclusion.
But feel free to show this post to that friend, to let them know there are even bigger idiots than them at large on this rock.
Back to the present day, and my friend, award-winning & best-selling author AK Nevermore has a new book out!
There once was an assassin. One day, he met a fairy and completely lost his head.
I’m quite excited about this one. I’m waiting for her final book in The Price of Talent series and need something to tide me over. One thing you can always guarantee with an AK Nevermore book is excellent characters, a great story, and lots of laughs.
FairyTale is out NOW! Click the book cover to find out more, and if spicy romance is not your bag, pass it on to someone you know will enjoy it. They’ll be grateful.
What’s the dumbest thing you’ve done while drunk? Anything shareable? Or even better, not shareable? (apart from with yours truly of course 😉 .
Hit me up with a comment below.
Speak soon,
JL
The Dry Appetite of the Earth word count: 29,065
PS: For more scary real-life stories, check out my Memories of Murder series. Part one is HERE.
PPS: For more freebies, pigswill and similar foolish japes, sign up for my free newsletter: