Taking the Plunge
By

    He was big for his age. A fifth grader, though he looked more like a high schooler. Casting dark shadows over all the other kids waiting at the side of the pool to be placed in the right swimming class. He already knew he couldn’t swim.

    The hot Florida sun was blasting through the ozone layer, obliterating any cloud cover that would have saved young, pale skin from its rays. It bounced off the stark cement that was a bit slimy from chlorine. Kids get anxious in a heat like this.

    She was volunteering. Working nights at a hospital freed up days for her. So she spent them helping out her children’s elementary school. She was small, just like her mother — only barely able to see the tops of the kids’ heads, but she had an unreasonable strength that could make up for it.

    As instructed, all the kids stepped toward the water’s edge and carefully sat at the edge, sticking one tentative big toe at a time into the rippling water. The sun bounced off the tiny new waves, sending light onto already-reddening faces that watched on.

    He sat at the end of the line, well aware of where he would be placed.

    One by one, almost like synchronized swimmers, the children left the comfort of dry land and (gracelessly, unlike synchronized swimmers) flopped into the cool water with shrieks. He did not dive in. He was led to the other end, the shallow end, and stepped tentatively down the stairs. He grasped the cold metal handrail that would surely melt in the heat of his palm.

    He doggie paddled, close enough to the wall to grasp at it frantically every few arm flails. He tried desperately to kick as he was shown, baffled at his own inability to float -– a task that seemed so easy for his classmates. He was instructed, out of pity, to take a break.

    Teachers focused their attention on the other students who splashed with much more jubilation rather than struggle. He watched, too, and perhaps he understood now the technique.

    She watched the water and the little heads that bobbed, like little shouting buoys. He was out of her line of vision standing a bit to the left and behind her.

    He decided, perhaps without even deciding. Almost without thinking, he made those quick, shaky steps toward the waters edge again. This time — the deep end. He thought he could do it as his toes pushed off the cement, but as soon as his knees felt the surface, he realized his mistake.

    He shrieked, this time in earnest. She watched as he began to sink. Without pondering a moment, she made that same fateful leap. Her tiny body, suddenly weighted with soaked jeans and tennis shoes, scrambled to grasp his body that dwarfed her own. Lifting him back to the surface as she, herself, sank below it, he was then grabbed by larger hands, stronger hands that waited at the side of the pool.

    The children watched, unsure whether or not they should be concerned. She sat next to him, both dripping and breathing heavily.

    “Thanks.”

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