The pain is instant. The night sky is as inky as the water surrounding me, but I don’t need to see to know what just happened. Seconds ago, at the edge of a pier jutting into the Caribbean Sea, I stood, ready to jump. Part dare, part tradition. Dozens of times I’ve leapt — but as the heat of the sting starts radiating up my arms and legs, I know what’s different this time.

There is no wind. No breeze. This past week, the skies have been too still. Portuguese man o’ wars have a gummy hump of a body that acts like a sail. Caribbean winters are famous for consistent trade winds, which typically blow these deadly beasties far offshore — but not this week.

In every direction, purple yarn tentacles knot with my movements, creating a nest. I’m scared to lift my arms to swim to the ladder, but it’s the only option. With just the dim streetlights of the pier, I can’t see to avoid them.

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This grimace-inducing burning isn’t centralized like a bee sting, but spread out, as if dozens of hands are extinguishing cigarettes on my skin. But I can’t recoil. When I retract, water swirls the tentacles right back on top of me.

Finally, I grasp the ladder. I want to be deliriously happy, but I’m racing a clock. Stinging marine injuries need to be handled swiftly. Smartly. Unfortunately, with panic flooding my system, I’m capable of neither at the moment.

I rack my brain to recall the remedy. Scrape a credit card across the affected area to remove the sticky stinging cells. I’ve no wallet on me, so I run to the beach for the next best thing — sand. I pull up handfuls to slough my arms from the nematocysts. Again and again, but I don’t think it’s working. I don’t feel good yet.

Then comes the bad idea. Wanting to wash off this nightmare, I drive home to shower. Too bad that in my fog of adrenaline, I forget that freshwater is the worst action for marine injuries. The introduction of a foreign environment triggers the cells to release toxins.

For a few brief moments, I feel better. Then breathing becomes difficult. It’s as if I’ve swallowed an entire shaker of pepper. Drinking water does nothing, and I know I’m in over my head.. I dial 9-1-1.

Sleep tempts, but I can’t nod off. An hour passes. I call 9-1-1 again to find that the ambulance arrived — but at the wrong address. Just as I’m about to pass out, bundled in a wool blanket to warm my chill, the paramedics knock. Under the ER’s glaring lights, I’m given three shots: Epinephrine. Steroids. Antihistamines.

The drugs settle in. I learn I suffered anaphylactic shock. Oops. I sleep soundly through the night, waking to find that my injuries have rendered my bum too sore to sit. It’s painful, sure, but nothing compared to the suffering that comes when I learn that the rumors of my stupidity traveled quickly, unlike last night’s ambulance.