The Day I Nearly Drowned

A story from my childhood, about the day I nearly drowned, and how my brother rescued me.

It was my fault, really. I’d love to be able to blame it on someone else, but I can’t. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going, thinking that memory would keep me safe, directing my steps across the old dock I had crossed a thousand times.

The sun was hot, unbothered by clouds in the afternoon sky. My aunt and baby cousin were snoozing under the cherry trees, and my mother lay beside them, a Rosamund Pilcher novel spread in her lap next to her lemonade. Dad was throwing sticks for the dog, who seemed to have regained the energy he lost over the eight hour drive earlier in the week. To be honest, it was amazing that any of us had survived that long. With three of us kids, a car-sick dog and two very tired parents, it was a miracle that no one had died. This trying pilgrimage was a yearly event, as we trekked across Alberta and into British Columbia to visit my maternal grandparents, who had settled in the outskirts of Nakusp. Their house was a sort of fairy-tale oasis to the kids, and a lengthy car-ride for my parents. Set on a plot and a half of land, the two story house was filled with untouchable treasures; the ceilings covered in model aircraft, the walls lined with decorative plates and spoons, and the floors littered with plants and handmade furniture. Downstairs, the walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with knowledge that was literally beyond my reach, as my eight-year old stature kept me from the good stories on the top shelves. Outside, my Oma’s green thumb proved hyper-effective, and the flower beds were bursting with bloom no matter the time of year. If we behaved, Opa would take us with him to feed the goldfish, who swam happily in the pond below the balcony, twisting underneath crystalline waters and cleverly placed lily pads. In the evenings, the attention was focused around the fire pit, set back from the road to the east of the house, nestled beneath the trees down a small brick path.

                Summers in Nakusp were hot and balmy, punctuated by days of ceaseless rain and fierce thunder storms. The day I almost drowned was one of the former, with heat so intense it drove everyone to the water’s edge. The beach we played at was waterfront property of some friends, since my Oma and Opa lived in a cul-de-sac inset off the water. Their neighbours graciously opened their beach to neighbourhood, providing a closed off access to the water, away from the dangers of speed boats. Their beach was enclosed by logs chained together, with the old dock running along the left side of their plot of lake. When the tide went out, the dock rested gently on the gritty sand; at high tide, the water lapped at the grass of their back yard, eliminating the actual beach and pushing people into the cherry trees that edged their yard. The dock was simply made, with six squares linked together by the same chains that the logs were tethered to. Each square had a tall post in the middle, fitted through a square hole in the middle of each segment of dock. The posts were dug into the sand, keeping the dock in relatively the same spot, give or take a few feet. As the waves from a passing speed boat or kids splashing hit the edges, the dock would knock around, with the squares battering the posts in a feeble escape attempt. We had been frequenting the beach since infancy, and the dock had always been there. The boys and I had chased each other along it, we had taught our dog to swim off of it, and learned how to dive. It was a constant in our summers, as reliable as a sidewalk or street, and as well-worn as either thing.

                That afternoon was particularly hot, as if Mother Nature was intent on making up for the three days of rain that preceded it. I had it in mind to beat my brother’s record at log running, a competition Mom disliked and Dad laughed at. We would start at the end of the dock and leap onto the first log, flailing wildly as we tripped along the logs, trying to make it as far as we could before crashing into the lake, out-of-breath and mildly winded. The only reason my mom allowed us to play past the first round was a caveat that we had to wear our life-jackets. I had initially resisted this imposition, as I had earned my freedom from the hideous orange vests last year, proving that I could swim like an adult. The resistance was short lived; one look from my mother quenched any argument, and after my dad threw in his support, I knew the battle was lost. So I grudgingly clipped the life jacket on, wandering onto the dock as I fiddled with the buckles. For something intended for children, it could be a whole lot less complicated. After snapping the final clip together, I surveyed the logs, floating innocently at the end of the dock. As I reviewed my strategy, I felt my foot miss the dock. Before I knew it, my forehead was slammed against the pole, and I crashed into the water below the dock. My wandering mind had distracted my feet, and I had slipped into one of the holes in the middle of the dock. Dazed, I didn’t realize what happened at first. Frantically, I looked around, trying to figure out where I was. That was when I realized the dangers of the dock.

                The segments of docks had a lip close to the water, presumably to cut down on costs and make each part lighter. As I had dropped into the water, my life jacket had caught on the lip, and was holding me just above the surface of the water. My fall had caused waves, which in turn rocked my dock segment, pushing me into the water and repeatedly dunking my head below the surface. Had I been unencumbered by my safety gear, I may have been able to swim below the dock and out into the open lake; however, my mother’s insistence on safety had actually left me less safe than before. Funny how that works. My flailing didn’t help the situation, and the dock began to sway towards the post, crushing me in between the dock and its mooring with surprising force. Combined with the up and down motion, I could barely breathe. All in all, I had probably been in the water no more than twenty seconds, but already I was swallowing water and gasping for air. I couldn’t even scream.

                Zach, my twin, had been about to join me when I slipped down the hole. In seconds, he analyzed the situation and dashed to my rescue. Although I continuously beat him in school, his spatial awareness was far better than mine, and I’ve learned many times since then, that his response to my rescue is swift and decisive. As my eight-year-old sibling launched himself onto the dock at full tilt, my mother registered what had happened, and began to panic as she followed him onto the dock. Zach knew how the dock worked, and once he got to my section, he started pushing the pole away from me, which stopped the crushing. How he moved the whole section on his own, I’ll never understand, but I’m thankful nevertheless. As he fought with Nature, Mom reached the dock and didn’t register what he was trying to do. Her arrival pushed the dock harder into my back, smashing my face into the pole and sloshing water into my mouth as I struggled to breathe. I remember vaguely hearing Zach yell at her, but I was a bit distracted with my effort to breathe. Finally, Mom pulled me sobbing from the water, covered in scratches and coughing up lake water. As she carried me (carefully) back to shore, the rest of the beach gathered to check on me. In total, the whole episode probably lasted three minutes. Looking back at those three minutes, I’ve never been more thankful that I shared a womb for nine months than I was back then.