At the age of 15, Mike (later known as Flea) and I became interested in jumping into swimming pools from rooftops. We started by diving off two-story buildings. We didn’t care about the people sunbathing around the pool; It was even more fun that way. Typically, we would jump, climb out of the pool, and immediately take off across the yards like bats. But there were cases when we surfaced and saw that there was no danger of being caught yet. Therefore, we began to go crazy, throwing the owners or the watchman who arrived in shock into shock. Gradually we reached five-story buildings. The depth of the pools didn’t matter: it didn’t take much water to land. If the pool is shallow, then you need to try to fall into the water not with your head, but with your side.
One day in June, Mike and I looked at an apartment building nearby. The teardrop-shaped pool was very small, and the deepest point was at the narrowest part of the teardrop. We had to use an outside ladder to get onto the building, and someone started yelling at us to get down immediately. But we didn’t even think about stopping. I told Mike to start, he jumped and I heard a splash of water. Then I climbed onto the roof. I didn’t even look down to measure the trajectory of the jump — I was more worried about the prospect of getting hit in the face by the people screaming from below.
![](http://southampton.top/wp-content/uploads/2024/03/06e32264e40b3b9df8206c9b3417cf9b_cropped_666x999.jpg)
I realized already in the air that I had overdone the force of my jump and would now miss the pool. The concrete floor approached inexorably, and I landed on my heels about ten inches from the edge of the pool, after which I fell into the water and began to sink. But, despite the shock of pain that almost paralyzed me, I was able to push myself out of the pool, roll onto the concrete shore and let out an inhuman scream that seemed to come from the depths of hell.
I couldn’t move. Someone called an ambulance, and the paramedics clumsily rolled me onto a stretcher, nearly dropping me in the process. They didn’t secure the stretcher in the ambulance, so I was hanging out in the back like shit in a hole all the way to the hospital. I was overcome with terrible pain and horror, since, judging by the fact that I could not move, the damage was very serious.
I was taken to Cedars Sinai Hospital and x‑rayed. “You broke your back, and everything is not very good,” said the doctor who came into the room, and then I began to sob: “What about my summer? What about my sports activities? What about my life?
I desperately tried to convince every nurse I passed by to give me painkillers, but they wouldn’t give me anything without the doctor’s permission. Then my father burst into the room shouting: “What did I tell you? Who’s right now? Didn’t I tell you that this would happen someday? And I just looked at the nurse and said, “Someone get him out of here. He shouldn’t be here.” Finally, I was fitted with an artificial breathing system with a belt around my chest. I was informed that my spine was flattened like a stack of pancakes and it would take months of stretching to restore it.
![](http://southampton.top/wp-content/uploads/2024/03/7009f63dfe2d99af209f6e6cc79f4356_cropped_666x444.jpg)
After two months of stretching, I started going crazy from lack of movement. One day Hillel Slovak (future Red Hot Chili Peppers guitarist) visited me and I pleaded, “I can’t be here anymore. You have to take me away from here!” He went downstairs to get the car ready, and I untied my belt, rolled over, and stood up on my weakened legs. Shining my bare butt in the cut of my hospital pajamas, I began to sneak along the corridor like Frankenstein. The nurses noticed me and started shouting that I couldn’t go anywhere for another two weeks, but I didn’t care. Somehow I walked down the stairs and Hillel helped me into the car. Before arriving home, I persuaded him to take me to the building where I crashed to understand what exactly I had done wrong.
I spent the next few weeks horizontal in my bed. Luckily, a friend of my father’s named Lark, a beautiful, relatively successful actress in her early 20s, was visiting me. She came day and night to treat me with sex. I was wearing my belt again and had to keep asking her to be very careful, but this nymphomaniac was jumping on me like crazy. It certainly made the healing process more enjoyable.
Full recovery took a long time, and my back still makes itself felt sometimes. But, fortunately, I found new hobbies, and I never returned to jumping from the roof.