I learned to swim in middle school. I was tiny, the pool was massive, and it was my first day. My coach was a thin man, about my grandfather’s age. He was strict, direct, and had a refreshing, no-nonsense wisdom that bordered on charming.
I got in the water ---aaah, it’s cold! But no worries; I knew how to float. A bunch of us started floating in the shallow end.
For a few days, we practiced floating and breathing. Then, one calm, ordinary day, I heard the coach yell, “Out of the water, everyone! We’re heading to the deep end.”
Wait, what? I don’t know how to swim. Old man, you haven’t taught me how to swim yet! The water’s deep, and I’m tiny. I can’t swim.
As I walked to the other side of the pool, my legs tingled, and my heart sank. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling—fear, maybe?
We got to the deep end, and without warning, he pushed me in.
One moment there was air, and now there’s water —above me, below me, all around me. I tried to grasp onto something, but there was nothing. I looked for the surface —oh, I could see it. But it was further away, deeper in the cold silence, away from where I desperately wanted to be.
What happened next is why I love the water. I stopped struggling. I let go and allowed myself to sink. Suddenly, I found the surface. With a determination I didn’t know I had, I pushed myself upward. I broke through the water, gasped for air, and floated to the side. I looked at the old man. He was watching me, searching my eyes for fear. But he didn’t see any. He smiled, then threw the next kid in.
I never feared water. I never got the chance to. My coach killed that fear before it could even take root.
I’m forever grateful to that old bastard for that push into the deep water.