The Day I Broke My Neck: Part 3

If you're just tuning in, this is the story about the day I broke my neck. This is Part Three—but here's a quick recap:

Six years ago, I was 29 years old and working as a deep sea commercial fisherman off the Northeast coast. I loved my job. Chasing squid and fluke offshore in rough seas and brutal weather—it was dangerous, exhausting, and exhilarating. Some days we worked up to 18 hours straight on a shifting deck, in the middle of a storm. It took a serious toll on my body.

When I wasn't at sea, I was traveling, surfing, spearfishing—spending most of my time in the sun or on the water. I was a few years into sobriety after a wild early adulthood, and for the first time in my life, things felt manageable. My mind, my body, my finances—everything was finally respectable. Though some self-destructive habits remained, I was a thrill-seeker.

I had just landed a job as a deckhand on a highliner—a top-tier squid boat out of Montauk, NY. I was making real money. I even had a plan to buy a new truck—something I'd never done before.

On this particular April morning, I picked up my sponsor—a gregarious Frenchman—and we headed down to the beach for a cold-water polar plunge. The long hours at sea had flared up my tendinitis again, and the freezing water helped soothe the pain.

We drove out on the beach under stormy skies. The wind rattled the truck. A full moon hung overhead.

I decided to make things a little more exciting by diving off the back of my truck into the harbor. I jumped in six or seven times. Before we started to head home, I said, "Let me jump in one more time." I was cold, tired, and like usual—not conscious of the danger.

I didn't realize it then, but this would be the last time I would ever feel my body the way it was.

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I climbed onto the back of my truck. The cold April wind whipped against my bare chest as I walked toward the lowered tailgate. I anchored my toes against the freezing metal edge, crouched down, stretched out my arms, and lunged into the shallow water.

 

"Diving off my truck that morning - this was moments before the jump that changed everything."

I don't remember hitting my head—but I did. And hard.

I floated to the surface, face-down, in the emerald green water. I knew what had happened immediately. I couldn't move—my wrist rotated slightly, and I could kind of turn my neck, but other than that, I was totally paralyzed. I could feel my face, but that was it.

As I stared through the water at the rippled sand below, time began to warp. I thought, Wow, I'm moving really fast—I hope Jerome can get to me in time.

But there were a few things working against me:

A full moon high tide, a storm-driven gale, and the strong outflow current of North Sea Harbor—all pulling the water out of the bay quickly.

Later, Jerome told me he'd hesitated. At first, he thought I was joking—waiting for me to roll over, spit out some water, and laugh.

But that's not what was happening.

I had broken C3 through C7 in my neck. C3 controls your ability to breathe.

So while I thought I was drowning, I was actually suffocating.

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That's when it happened—the highlight reel.

Not only had time slowed, it felt like the very laws of physics were breaking down. I started to see all the things that had made me... me. But I didn't just see them—I lived them. Mentally, physically, emotionally, I walked through my life, frame by frame.

And yeah—I know how corny it sounds. "Life flashing before your eyes." But I can attest this was real, it was a profound spiritual experience. I don't know what kind of drugs your mind floods your consciousness with before death, but let's be real, they're pretty good.

I was totally conscious—not just of where I had been, but also of where this was going.

And the strange thing was—I didn't feel scared. Or sad.

I wasn't even disappointed that my life might be ending.

Before I broke my neck, I had always carried a kind of macabre obsession with danger. I was constantly running away from who I was, from how I felt. And because of that deep distaste for—well—myself, I developed a fascination with dying young. I flirted selfishly with dangerous risks—always looking for a quick reward.

Between my extracurricular activities and my professional life, I lived like the clock was always ticking. It was a mad dash to the end—to taste everything, go everywhere, squeeze every drop out of life while I still could.

And I was profoundly grateful for this—especially in this moment.

Grateful I got to see the sights, smell the smells.

Grateful I got to battle the ocean. To fry in the summer sun.

To live like I did—even if just for a while.

And above all, I was all right with it—with dying. It wasn't a new idea.

It was as if God—or the universe, or essence, or source, or whatever you want to call it—was inviting me home.

Not with fear, but with love and light.

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I remember pulling myself out of it for a split second—just long enough to think,

Wow. I can't believe these are the things I'm thinking about.

And it wasn't the "good" memories.

It wasn't laying on the sand with my surfboard next to a pretty girl.

It wasn't landing the job.

It wasn't getting the things I thought I wanted.

It wasn't anything I would've judged as success.

In fact, it was all the difficult things.

The long days at sea, battling the ocean.

The lowest points in addiction.

The pain. The suffering. The unrelenting challenges.

What hit me in that moment—those struggles I'd survived, that's what shaped me. Not the good times. The hard shit. That's what made me who I was.

That's what life is: growth through pain.

With love.

And if I had one regret—it was that I wouldn't get to have a child,

and watch them grow.

Then, my consciousness cut out.

And everything faded to black.