Drowning in Fear (and Water)
But mostly water.
… And given that it’s summer now, there’s nothing more that scares me than swimming.
Everything about it. From the shocked reactions of “What?! You don’t know how to swim?!” to the chiding offers of “Okay, I’m going to teach you how to swim at some point this summer,” and not to mention the safety talks of “You actually have to learn how to swim this summer — it’s such an important life skill! I mean, what if you drown?” Oh, and before I forget, the actual feeling of being surrounded by water.
No.
Imagine this:
It’s almost summer again — there’s that feeling in the air, of fresh grass and fresh flowers, and that feeling on your skin, of summer breezes with just enough sun to make it warm but not blazing hot.
But you’re not there. You’re inside. Standing in front of a public pool. In the corner of your eye, you see a couple of kids, laughing and splashing in the water. You’d envy them for their comfort in the water, but you have more pressing issues— namely, the water.
It taunts you, mocking you. It ripples softly — moving, for lack of a better word, fluidly. The light keeps refracting, catching the water perfectly, making it shine, making it glimmer.
Your older sister nudges you. Today, she is one of many to offer to teach you, and one of few to go through with it.
You step into the water. It’s comforting — for now, at least — to feel the cool liquid swirl around your feet as you descend down the small set of stairs.
You get to the bottom. Your feet touch the floor of the pool. So far, so good.
Your sister walks you through breathing — taking deep breaths, holding them, coming back up. You’re getting shakier; water is collecting in your nose, but you can handle this. Bobbing down into the water — the feeling of having your hair rise up each time, floating all around you and suspended in water — you could get used to that. Maybe. With some time, and some practice, perhaps.
So far, so good.
You think.
The next step is, apparently, floating. On your back.
It’s a bit more daunting.
You’re more cautious now, taking your sweet time, unsure of what to do. You end up kicking your legs up, and you feel your sister’s hand supporting your back. It’s okay, it seems to say. I’ve got you — you won’t sink.
She tries to walk you through how to float — tight stomach, loose limbs — and sometimes you think maybe I’ve got it now but you lose it again and again and again in a desperate attempt to hold on to it. Your limbs are drooping too much — your feet reach for a horizontal surface to stand on, a surface where you’re steady, where you can stabilize, and your hands are looking for anything to cling onto— anything —even themselves, and they’re balled into tight fists, showing no signs of loosening until your sister reminds to relax, it’s okay, I’ve got you, just relax — wait, not your stomach, keep that up, relax everything else, you’ll be fine and then your hands are stuck in a state of false relaxation, fingers splayed with nothing to clutch except the emptiness of water.
You’ve started to find your bearings — or the closest you’ll ever get to finding your bearings, probably — and your sister thinks you’re ready, asks Is it okay if I let you go and you, knowing she’s going to have to let go one day, say yes, whisper it softly with a hint of I don’t even know if I’m ready, but I’m hoping here — I’m hoping and hoping. She continues to stand next to you, ready to support you, stand by you if you need it — but her hand moves away.
And that, that is when hell breaks loose and swims free.
Suddenly, your carefully crafted support system, and whatever semblance of stability you thought you had comes crashing down, and with it, your own body. You feel yourself sinking, your limbs dragging you down and finding the ground they love so much, and you feel your stomach relaxing, succumbing to the weight of your legs pulling you down and then Oh no, here comes the water; it creeps up slowly around your neck, and that’s it, you’re a lost cause, there’s no going back now. In the back of your mind, you think you hear your sister, saying something to you but you can’t distinguish it, maybe it’s Come on, you can do this, but you can’t, you’re way too tense and Why can’t you just walk on water? It’d be easier anyway.
The water — that comforting, cool, swirling liquid you stepped into earlier — is still cool, cool around your warm neck where the blood is being pumped to your head faster than ever as you try not to panic as it continues to swirl, swirl to become a vice around your neck as you hold it stiff and try to keep your head above the water, and as your head starts to sink lower and lower you’re becoming all too aware that it’s liquid, liquid you never want in your lungs, never want to breathe in, and you can’t shake the feeling that water, water is anything but comforting right at this moment in time.
Your sister, thankfully, steps in at that moment, righting you. Feet meet ground. Hands — and fingers meet a pair of shoulders. You didn’t ever get any water in you but you still sputter, trying to shake that feeling off of you, of getting too close to the water and melting like some sort of weird Icarus-meets-Wicked-Witch-of-the-West.
Okay, let’s try again, your sister says, patiently.
So you do. You try again, and again, and again, and each time you’re left on your own, you sink like a rock, and each time she steps in and rights you, and each time you sputter and shiver like it’s the first time.
It’s been an hour since that first time. Even though you haven’t done any actual swimming, you’re all wet anyway, from flailing and half-drowning, and no matter how hard you try to blow, you swear there’s still water in your nose.
Your sister looks at you and sighs.
Half an hour later, your mom does the same when your sister tells her what happened.
That night, just before you fall asleep, as you remember all that happened, you do the same too.
Maybe someday I’ll be comfortable in the water. Maybe someday I’ll learn to ignore the dozens of alarm bells that keep me hesitant and reluctant.
Maybe someday, I’ll learn how to swim.
But until then, I’ll stick to dry land.
