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THE NARRATIVE ARC
How I Learned to Swim in the Atlantic Ocean
And the life lessons I gleaned
When I was five years old, soaking wet, and tight-gripping my dad’s neck, I learned to swim. The day started with my dad as my anchor in the Atlantic Ocean. He was the swimmer — I was just along for the ride. I didn’t think I’d have to brave the waves on my own.
We laughed and bobbed together as the Atlantic Ocean pulled us forward. My feet kicked against his chest and I coughed and sputtered. My quickly darkening skin smelled of salt and sun, and I felt swept up in the adventure of grown-up activities — I’d never been out past the wave breaks before.
I remember feeling like I’d just completed a rite of passage. Until that magical day, my parents forbade me from exploring the ocean beyond the foam lapping my little feet.
I loved the water, and I felt at home in the ocean’s endless depths and blurry borders, but I was still scared of fully going under. I was terrified of losing control.
“We’re out so far!” I squealed and Dad smiled. In reality, he could still stand, but my tiny perspective assumed we’d entered an aquatic wilderness. Dad’s secure, safe, and strong arms allowed me to enjoy the excitement of the waves with carefree abandon, but panic lurked behind the…
