There was this one time

'Do you know what I think your problem is?' My father, with that wild mop of hair now flat and damp against his skull, said to me. 'You over-think things when you're about to do it. You have mastered the technique, I can tell, but once I let go, you panic. It's all about instinct. Not about learning how to swim as much as it is about being able to avoid drowning.'

​

He was speaking in that quiet, mild-mannered voice that had become his trademark. Every time we were at some event or party in his honor there would always be someone spicing up their speech with an imitation. Even when he, many years later, passed away that voice would be ever present in the eulogies. That calming voice. He had a way of speaking that more sounded like an inner monologue, even when directed at others. I remember that it bothered my mother immensely, but she loved him, so she let it pass. If that was the extent of his shortcomings then so be it.

​

It was October, and uncharacteristically warm. The way it had been the last few years. I had overheard my parents talking to their friends at various dinner parties. About how it had just become warmer and warmer during the summers, or colder and colder during the winters, or that there had always been snow at Christmas when they were kids. The only thing I knew for certain was that swimming season had gone from summer break to fall vacation.

​

It had been frustrating for my Dad that I was ten years old and didn't know how to swim. He, on the other hand, had been a fish as a child, or so he claimed. That Grandpa hadn't been able to get him out of the water. That he stayed in until his lips turned blue and his body shivered as the cold penetrated his core. Gramps didn't remember it quite that way and had his own tale to tell about how he basically had to throw him off the docks and into the crystal clear lake by the house where they lived. The frustration at my inability had resulted in my father grabbing me one weekend and whispering in my ear that; 'My boy, we're going swimming.' Since alone time with the old man was a rarity, I willingly came along.

​

The hilly landscape of Up North Wisconsin flew past us as we drove the few winding miles to our favorite swimming hole. We never went to the lodge docks where most people swam. My father was way too antisocial for that. He felt that he interacted with people enough at work and didn't want to be forced into it in his spare time as well. This would inevitably happen if we ventured out to Pair-o-Lakes, a popular hang out of the area. Instead, we deviated from Pair-O-Lakes road, that long stretch that twisted around Lincoln Lake, onto a minor dirt road. To a secret spot, few people knew of. It was a small beach at an inlet, almost kitty corner from the Lodge. The fact of the matter was that one could see the Lodge, with its beach and docks from the inlet. When I became a teenager, right before it was forbidden to bathe in the lakes, I would stand on the rocky outcrops and tell myself that I could recognize the sunbathers on the other side, far away in the distance.

​

My father held his hands under my belly as support, in such a gentle way that it was almost as if he was going to rock me to sleep. For a moment it almost felt as if I could swim, I felt carried by the wetness around me but as soon as his hands came away my body did the same. I desperately moved my hands and legs around but to no avail. I was more rock than I was a buoy in that instance.

​

After a few fruitless attempts, we sat resting on the wide deck that stretched out like a balcony over the dark water. Diving, or even jumping for that matter, was not allowed from the structure. Partly because it was quite a few feet from the surface, and partly due to the water level being so low. Anyone who might hazard a try would definitely break something. Instead, bathers were supposed to climb down the old wooden staircase, that some kind farmer had built back in the day. It was unknown who that man had been. Farming had been an impossibility for quite some time and as their occupation died so did the knowledge of who they were. The farms lay empty and desolate along the country roads, great big holes in the roofs and the fields barren and dry. Maybe that man, the one who had built the stairs, had also constructed the boathouse that lay next to the deck or the changing room where we had left our clothes. I didn't care then, and maybe I still don't.

​

We sat there, close to each other, our bath towels wrapped around our bodies, like a second comforting skin. On the other side of the water the sun was setting and soon the chill night air would come creeping, the way it inevitably did. Still, the warm rays hung over the trees and the mossy cliffs on the horizon. On the edge of the deck, someone had placed a sign. An old laminated paper had been attached to it, one of those things that the preservation society put up. The kind that one might have seen at the nature reserves or national parks, my father had exclaimed. I had never been to a national park and ignored his excitement. Upon our arrival to the lake, he had brushed away the grime from the notice, that claimed that there were ospreys in the area and that they were protected. My Father scoffed at this with disdain, but almost immediately after a kind of melancholy came over him. I don't think I fully comprehended it then, but it was some form of longing for a time when the Ospreys still existed. Maybe, we never spoke of it.

​

'Are there fish in the lake?' I asked every time we visited our own hidden swimming hole. 'Do they bite?' 

'There are no fish in these waters anymore.' Was his constant reply. 'So there is nothing to be worried about. They have been gone for many years now, you know this.'

I always appreciated how he never seemed to tire of me asking the same questions over and over again.

'Are you ready to get in again?'

'Yes. I will do it this time.'

​

We left the deck with its cold slick and worn wood and walked into the water in a place where there was some sand. We slowly took it one step at a time, letting the wet sand nestle its way between our toes. I let my digits play with it for a moment before pressing on. Once the water was up to my waist my father asked me to lay flat, right underneath the surface, with my arms straight out in front of me and my legs straight back.

​

'Take a deep breath.' He said. 'Try closing your eyes. Think of something else. Hum a tune or something of that nature.'

I felt his hands on my stomach once again, and I felt safe. I gently closed my eyes and started humming a little melody he used to sing to my mom; 
And they say love, love, love is all that we need. 

I moved my arms and legs to the rhythm of the melody. Felt the movement of the water against my body. Felt it splashing against my face as I moved forward. All of a sudden my body seemed to dissolve from its being and I became one with the liquid that surrounded me. I couldn't feel my father's hands anymore, I couldn't feel a thing.

'You are doing it.' I could hear him whisper gently in my ear, but I didn't dare open my eyes or stop humming;

And they say love, love, love is all that we need.

Every time the song came to an end I started over. Sometimes I felt a hand push me sideways to stop me from swimming too far away from the shore.

Once I finally opened my eyes I could see my father, on his back, with a smile on his face.

'It's all about not drowning.' He said.

​

If I remember things correctly I continued to keep my eyes shut a few more times, but once I felt confident enough I stopped. The humming did not cease until I was fifteen. Not long after that, they closed all the lakes. They were too contaminated to allow swimming. A year or so after that we moved from the rural area with its rolling meadows and tall trees. It was impossible to live there. We never swam again, there isn't enough water for such luxuries. It has become warmer, and drier.

Sometimes I gently close my eyes and hum that tune my father used to sing to my mother. That is when I feel safe and calm. 

And they say love, love, love is all that we need. Among other foolish things.