The summer before first grade, I jumped off the diving board. This was nothing less than the second coming.
Because that entire summer? I sat on the sidelines, my butt itchy from the grass and my eyes squinty from sun and my heart shrunken and black with envy as I watched my sister jump, arms flying, into blue.
I could swim, sure. But always, I sought the shallow water, stomach wrenching in terror whenever my toes drifted even an inch off concrete.
Kids much smaller than I took leaps off that diving board. I saw them. I wasn’t blind. I saw them pop to the surface, eyes wide and teeth flashing; not one of them died or called out for the lifeguard or (worst in my book) threw up in the water.
Once or twice, I made it as far as the stairs leading up to the board. I waited my turn in line, feeling like a normal kid. But I wasn’t a normal kid, and I knew it in every inch of my skinny little limbs… limbs that ran like a startled goat the minute they touched the warm metal stairs.
Mama was kind about it. “You’ll jump when you’re ready,” she assured me, eyes shadowed by cat-eye sunglasses. “Nothing to be ashamed about.”
But I was ashamed. That board screamed, in green neon, what I already knew: Dana is not a brave girl.
My sister didn’t understand the drama. “Jeez, there’s little babies jumping off that thing,” she said casually. “What, you think there’s sharks in the water or something?”
Actually, I had my doubts about that last item. I mean, have you seen that dark metal grate at the bottom of the deep end? My butt remained on the grass.
One day, near the end of the summer, I watched a neighbor girl who had Down’s Syndrome jump off the diving board. For some reason, that undid me. “I’m going to jump off that board,” I announced to Mama, and marched to the end of the line.
When it was my turn, I tromped up the four rough, metal stairs and walked rapidly to the end of the diving board. And looked down.
I didn’t turn tail and run back. Instead, I froze.
Legs threatening to give, I stood there, staring at the water. I heard a strange roaring in my brain and couldn’t even discern whether kids were laughing or jeering or shouting with impatience, which actually was a blessing. Mama got up from her chair and stood close to me, raising her cat-eye glasses. Wordlessly, the blond lifeguard got down from his high perch, dove into the water, and swam to the end of the board. He winked and treaded water. “I’ll catch you,” he said.
I saw his lips move, registered the blue of his eyes, but I didn’t budge. Another lifeguard dove into the pool, flanked the other side of the board. Then the older brother of Down’s Syndrome girl, a boy named Greg, got into the water as well. “There’s three of us now,” he said, and held out his arms.
His beautiful face turned to blur, and sobbing, I turned my back on all three of them, returning to the safety of concrete. My sister wouldn’t look at me, and I didn’t blame her. I parked my butt back on the grass next to Mama, who handed me a cup of Hi-C and scanned a magazine with Elizabeth Taylor on the cover. Nobody spoke to me the rest of the afternoon, and for that I was grateful.
A few minutes before the pool closed, Mama started packing up our things. The kaleidoscope of children and kickboards and inner tubes had dissipated, and as I rolled my towel up with brisk efficiency, I said, “I feel like I could jump off that board right now,” knowing that it was too late. Knowing I was a liar.
Mama took off her sunglasses and looked me in the eye. “Well, then,” she said measuredly, “I guess you’d best go do it.”
I damn near peed myself.
Gauntlet thrown, I approached the diving board, walked to the edge, threw my eyes to the sky for a quick prayer to Jesus, and jumped.
I gasped to the surface, rabbity-hearted, and waited for applause.
I never got any. But I did get a chlorine-soaked towel and a soft hand on my back, leading me back to my beloved concrete and the shallow water. Back to home.
{ 50 comments… read them below or add one }
Stunning. This memory, the way you wrote about it, how your words stir up the taste and sound and fear of my own summers at the pool … simply stunning.
You have the uncanny (and amazing) knack of pulling me into your story, where I find myself standing nervously beside you as your apprehension spreads to me as well. You didn’t hear the applause then, and you may not hear it now, but it’s only because I’m a little too far away. I applaud you your storytelling prowess and your moment of glory. I also teared at the memory of the soft hands that led you home. We all need that someone in our lives don’t we? I want to be that person for my girl.
Thank you for this lovely piece of you.
I love when you do these posts. You are such a beautiful writer and every time I feel that I am right there with you.
This one hit home for me because although my 6YO has been swimming in our lake forever, my 9YO just would not do it. She was terrified of seaweed. The seaweed floating on top of the water and the seaweed that she couldn’t see but knew was down deep in the water. Year after year we would beg her, plead, reason with, yell, and throw up our arms in frustration. She wouldn’t go in. Yet, she would sit on the dock and watch everyone else swim and you could see the longing on her face. She wanted to be out there, but couldn’t.
Except for this year. This year she swam. And swam and swam. I don’t know what changed her mind. All I know is how happy she was once she did.
Kitch, you’ve been conquering fear since an early age. Hope your girls are able to see that and recognize what a special gift it is not to just sit on the sidelines of life.
This was absolutely beautiful.
The courage and faith it took to dive off that board. You do it when you’re mostly ready…
Justine said it well, you have a way of pulling me into a story, I could almost feel the grass myself! Thanks
Love it I totally remember being scared of the grate at the bottom of the pool.
I know it was deeper than that, but for what it’s worth, I still wouldn’t jump off that board. Because I still don’t know how to swim. Nobody mess with my life jackets, please.
You are a beautiful storyteller. I felt like I was standing there with you, nervous and mad at myself. Lovely.
You are such a gifted story teller; I felt like I was that little girl who suddenly decided to jump; except I am not sure I would have , I have a terrible fear of heights.
That was such a lovely and touching story. Thank you for sharing it.
Great story. I know I have said this before, but I really love the way that you tell stories; I could see everything that you were describing. You could write childrens’ books, I swear!
Also, I love the thing on the side of your blog that says “Explain to me again why I shouldn’t eat my young”. Too cute!
Beautiful! Stunning! Superb! I just wanna hug your six-yr old self for finding the courage within, buried by our neurotic tendencies. Thank you for a universally relevant post, and for making me a wee bit weepy.
*nods* Well written.
One of your very best posts. God, I love your mother. How fanfreakingtastic is she? You are a lucky girl for many reasons, but none the least to have been given that type of support from strangers. The lifeguards, the brother. How awesome is that? Sometimes, people just surprise you and best of all, sometimes you can surprise yourself.
Well-told story. I felt my gut clench for you. :)
I was deathly afraid of water as a kid. My mother put me in swimming lessons only to have me not put my face in the water the whole time. I taught myself to swim at age 11. Since then, my younger two sons ALSO taught themselves to swim after age 10, and the 12 yr old still won’t go near the diving board. I don’t blame him. Yes, that metal grate and the bottom threatens to kill us all. To this day, deep water eeks me out and I won’t swim in anything I can’t see the bottom of.
I am a swimmer. Competed on the swim team for umpteen years. Still absolutely scared of the diving board.
Great story…my heart was thumping for you.
Just so you know, I learned to swim at 33. And I have never jumped off a diving board or even cannonballed into a pool. But I am raising fearless kids, and often have my soft hand on their back, to remind them that I am always there, without judgement and always in awe of them…Wonderful writing…
Dana, what a great story. I remember being terrified of the diving board. That first jump took so much courage but was such a rush. Amazing how small baby steps can impact the rest of your life. I love your writing style too. Very engaging.
What a beautiful post! I was like you. I hope to think that now, I can jump more easily.
Tag words: “kids who are cowards?” Hardly! Without fear, there can’t be bravery.
Wow.
You are some writer, Sista! When’s *your* book coming out?
So many kinds of awesome I don’t even know where to begin!
You are a great writer, I wish sometimes you would do more posts like this although your cookery related posts are also great. What a wonderful story and what a wise, patient Mom you had there.
Were you living in small town Minnesota?? I swear that is my story. Except…
I had the CRAZY swim teacher who decided that I wasn’t gonna turn back off that diving board. She DROPPED me in the deep end – pushed me right off the edge of that lower diving board. I still remember the fear I had. I was gonna drown – I just knew it. Never mind the other teacher who was in the water that grabbed me the second my toes touched. She was so quick that my head barely went under. I went to that pool every summer of my childhood. I never climbed those stairs again. They vex me still…
Wow. Just wow. That was a powerful retelling.
An ode to doubt and determination. Often, I don’t know when readiness might show up – and then I’m glad I didn’t wait for it, because I can just go ahead and breathe again.
You were totally a kid after my own terrified heart. This reminded me of being about six at summer day-camp and all being expected to swim the full length of the pool in front of all the parents. Terrified of the deep end and afraid to open my eyes under water I swam in the grip of blind terror. Finally, after what seemed like ages, my fingers came to rest on the far edge of the pool. I opened my eyes in triumph only to realize that I’d swam sideways and was summarily hoisted out by a counselor at just about the half-way point. It’s nice how much affection we can conjure for our former selves (if only we could have had it back then).
I’m applauding! I’m also trying the peach/tomato salad from your last post.
Best,
Bonnie
{tears and a smile} I love your writing.
standing ovation
Applause! Applause! Great story and it brings back good memories!
I think this is the most beautifully, eloquently post you’ve ever written. It goes right at the top of my list of all time favorite posts ever written by anyone. This is so deep on so many levels and says so much. Take a bow, you’ve outdone us all! I can’t begin to tell you how much I love this.
jeebus i love this. Amazing writing. I know exactly how you felt and you wrote it beautifully. I’m so glad you jumped. So glad.
I had these moments. The didn’t come at the pool. They came on the playground, at cheerleading camp, and a thousand other places. I remember being gripped by that same fear, conquering it, and then being disappointed that there was no feeling of triumph on the other side. Sometimes life is just like that. (Sometimes life’s a little bastard…)
Oh, KITCH!!! If not a daredevil, you were certainly a kid with a huge heart. And that is what makes me love that little girl you write about. Every single time. (It took me an age to get up the nerve to jump off the low dive at the pool. After one or two turns, I swore off it and decided the high dive was never getting a try. Still holding to that!)
And God, how long it’s been since I last saw the likes of Hi-C. It seemed like it was in everybody’s lunchbox when I was a kid.
So great. I can see you on that board. And I can see my Boy on that board. I can’t help but think about him here. Sometimes he’s so brave, and sometimes he’s just not ready. I hope there aren’t too many analogous situations going on for you right now–that you aren’t paralyzed on the end of some metphorical board.
Thanks for your awesome writing.
Thank you all for your kind remarks–I called Mama last night to let her know that a bunch of wonderful readers loved her style and soft hands, but she’s not feeling well. Still, I spoke to Daddy and he promised to tell her.
Sweet Gibby: every time I read a Poonch story, I think “that’s me.” She has a special place in my heart. I’m so glad she ventured into the seaweed and deep water this summer.
Corinne: You read between the lines so well, don’t you?
Maria, learning to swim at 33? That’s up there with one of the most courageous acts of all time. Daddy never learned to swim and it made me determined to teach the girls at an early age.
Privilege: write that post. That experience…I want to hear every word.
Heather: never been a fan of being thrown into the water–how on Earth can you ever feel safe again?
Laura-I think that’s what struck me most, when I was writing this and trying so hard to get the details right…the utter kindness of those people in the water, patiently waiting for me to gather myself. Humanity does surprise you sometimes.
Thank you, readers, for the encouragement and kind words. I’m hovering a bit at the end of the diving board lately, for very odd and awkward reasons, but it means so much to me that you’re here.
This is such a beautiful memory. Conquering fear is something that only you can decide when and how to do. I know that the two little minxes you are raising will be fearless thanks to their Mama!
The high dive was a very similar story for me. I remember walking up the stairs to the top so many times only to turn around and back down in fear. When I finally did jump I landed mostly on my stomach and it hurt like a bitch. I can still remember the slapping pain. I don’t think I tried the high dive again after that!
Gosh, TKW, other than me being so darn much older than you, we could be twins! I was the biggest chicken around water. I could dunk my head at all till i was eleven and that was only fully armed with noseplugs, goggles and swim cap on! Obviously not a born athlete… I love this story. I love how these moments stick in our minds and hearts and form this thread – is it jumping, but jumping too late? I can relate to that.
Awwwww. I want to be there to give you a hug. Ok. Maybe not since you preferred to be left alone. But I wish I were there.
You m’lady are a consummate storyteller.
I loved that those people had the presence of mind to recognize that you were on the board and the went in to help you. Whether you jumped in or not – they were supporting you – and you remembered them to this day. What a great post!
Felt like I was on the end of the diving board with you. Your mama is/was a genius in the way she handled you. Not sure I was always that supportive without undue pressure while raising my own boys.
I was sad, excited, and proud of you all at once!…and then I laughed when I read that you were handed a Chlorine soaked towel as your reward! Still laughing! How ’bout now, are you a die-hard swimmer?…see, I still sit on the sidelines and watch, and work on my tan!
I get the “Drama” about being in the water. I am terrified of drowning. This is from having my head shoved under water one too many times as a kid. I like the water. To dangle my feet in or to float on top of a raft to sun myself.
But
I dont swim.
and I dont care who makes fun of me. It wont get me in the water.
I really loved reading this story. You are an excellent writer.
That held me breathless. Amazing, beautiful words.
Do you know I was the same, and now at 33, I still am. Afraid to jump I mean. :-)
Sweet story. I love it when you tell stories.
We know you can do it, but if you can find another cute blond lifeguard, you don’t have to tell HIM that.
This is a gorgeous post and a heart warming story. I really did feel like I knew you and was rooting for you to jump off! I think your mama sounds amazing and only hope that I can be as gently as encouraging to my own kids as she was with you. Great Post!
Believe it or not, I read this story the minute it got to my email and I adored it beyond belief and sent it out to the Twitterverse because, m’dear, this it the kind of story that belongs there. You are a gifted storyteller and it is in posts like these that your writing comes alive for all of us, I think. What I love is that your past is so rich and full for you–as it is for most of us–but you make it real and now and relevant every single time.
I’m so glad you dove in, even if nobody noticed. Keep doing it. Even now. You might be surprised what comes your way if you do. If you shed the fears….