For a Pessimist, I am Pretty Optimistic

I hate being underwater and it’s especially worse when I’m in the ocean. Have you ever really taken a look last time you were swimming? Imagine, you’re just doggy paddling about and you pop your head under the water for a bit. If you look to one side you can see the shore, see the rocks, and see people’s legs as they stand and splash about. When you look to the other side, all you see is vastness. No rocks, no people, no ships…nothing. It’s truly terrifying not knowing what’s out there.   I’m convinced one day a shark or some other ocean creature is going to jump out of that vastness and take me away.

According to my mother, I used to love going to the beach. She would joke that I could swim before I could stand. So what made me change my mind? Even though I disagree, my mom is convinced that it was because of something that happened to me when I was 4 years old.

While my parents were together, my Dad loved to go scuba diving every weekend. My mom would bring me along and we would watch from the shore as my dad and his friends would prepare to be submerged.

Supposedly one day a friend of my mom’s accompanied us. While the two of them were in deep conversation I decided to toddle after my Dad. I waded in until suddenly I fell. I had reached the point where the ground level took a deep drop. Trying to surface, I ended up getting my leg stuck on an ocean plant thus trapping myself underwater.

Seeing this put my mom in a panic and she completely froze. It wouldn’t have done either one of us any good if she tried to save me anyway. She had no idea how to swim and was scared of the water from a time she almost drowned as a child. Luckily, her friend sprang into action, dove in the water, and grabbed me around my stomach as she lifted me up. The pressure on my stomach helped me to cough up all the water I swallowed. Breaking out of her panic, my mom rushed over to fawn over me while checking to make sure I was okay. I was.

Despite this debacle, I still enjoyed summers at the beach. I’d collect seashells, make sandcastles, bury a family member in the sand….anything that didn’t involve going into the water. I had no memory of my near-drowning and assumed I wouldn’t go near the water since I couldn’t swim. Besides, someone needed to keep Mom company as she sat on the towel the entire time.

Four years later, while visiting my dad, he decided he was going to teach me how to swim. He had just moved to Miami and was eager to take me to South Beach. He claimed that he always went there because it has one of the cleanest oceans in the U.S., but I knew better. My Dad was never one to let even his young daughter stop him from ogling half dressed women.

 After getting lotioned up, we prepared for lesson number one: getting me into the water. This was no easy feat. You know those kids you see go to the shore and run away giggling as the wave’s crash near their feet? For 30 minutes that’s what I did, but instead of giggling I was screaming in terror. Seaweed was washing up with the water and I didn’t want it touching me. With no memory of my previous entanglement, I was afraid that the seaweed was spinach.

Sick of my yelling, my dad gave up and picked me up to carry me in. I screamed some more when I realized his destination and he put me right back down.

“Why won’t you stop that?” he snapped.

I though it was pretty obvious. “Cause I’m scared to get wet,” I responded.

“Stop acting like a brat, what’s the matter?” he asked, this time using the adult-to-kid tone.

I shrugged. “Dunno. I just am.”

“Well how about this, I’ll carry you on my back while I swim. Then you’ll see it’s not so bad.”

I shook my head vehemently. “No. You’ll drop me in.”

He laughed. “Why would I do that?” I still shook my head. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I still hesitated. “Come on. I’m your dad,” he said. “You can trust me.” Agreeing, I climbed on his back and he started to swim.

As we swam out farther, I began to relax. I had never been this far away from the shore and the water was bluer than what I usually see in Long Island.

Suddenly, my Dad stopped swimming and stood. He’s a really tall guy and to a pint sized me, it seemed like I was on top of a huge giant. When he straightened to full height, the water seemed so far below.

I shrieked “Don’t drop me!” as I tightened my scrawny arms around his neck.

“It’s okay,” he said “I’m you Dad, I won’t drop you.”

I relaxed my grip. Next thing I know, I’m being pushed off his back. I fall and I see my dad’s wide smile as I hear him let out a bark of laughter. I feel myself tumbling underwater, a whole tangle of arms and legs while I thrash about trying to stand. My Dad scooped me up laughing as I screamed over and over “Get me out!”

Back at the safety of our towel, I finished coughing from a fit that was induced from the rush of water that went up my nose. My dad was still laughing.

“That was hilarious! You should have seen your face,” he managed to say through gasps of laughter.

I wouldn’t talk to him the entire drive back to the house.

“Are you still angry?” he asked. “Oh come on, I couldn’t resist. You should have known that!”

Many years later, my dad tried to cajole me to ride with him in his new fishing boat.

”It’ll be fun. Look, even the dogs are coming,” he said while packing up his van. His 3 Shetland sheepdogs were barking away happily in the back. It would be cute to see them on the boat. My step-mom even bought them ridiculous outfits that they loved to wear.

“Maybe I’ll come with you and stay in the van and watch,” I said. “I still can’t swim and I don’t want to fall in or anything.”

“The dogs don’t drown and their smaller than you. You’ll be fine,” he replied. “Besides, if anything happens to you, I’ll save you. You can trust me. I am your dad, after all.”

At those words, I turned around and went back into the house. I wasn’t falling for that again.

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