Underwater

Yesterday afternoon I took the kids to the pool.

When I was little, going to the pool meant going to one big L-shaped pool, maybe with a little rectangular kids' pool close by. This pool is more complicated: there's a big shallow pool with fountains and a slide, a deeper pool with slightly bigger slides for slightly bigger kids, a loop for riding big floaty rafts, and an L-shaped pool, like the ones I remember from childhood only smaller, for the biggest kids.

I find it a little stressful to keep track of 5 children there, but I was managing. The three big ones can swim well enough that I mostly just let them play together while I watch the two littles. It worked fine until Petely asked if one of his brothers could take him on a floaty raft. "I'll be up by the little pool when you're done going around the loop," I said, "and then you can go play again."

Instead of waiting up by the little pool, though, I went looking for them. They climbed out of the water together at the end of the loop. "Come on, Pete," said his older brother as he climbed into the middle-sized pool. "Let's go this way." Pete followed and I watched, a little worried. Last summer one section of the middle-sized pool was too deep for him, and I was afraid that he would walk in over his head while his brother trudged on, oblivious. I called out, but it was too noisy for them to hear.

Pete was doing fine, and I relaxed. He must have grown more than I realized, I thought to myself. Isn't it amazing how they grow?

Unfortunately, it wasn't that he had grown so tall. I had misremembered the location of the deepest spot. Pete took one more step forward and went under the water. I could see his hair swirling, his limbs suddenly flailing. His brother hadn't noticed that anything was amiss. Was I going to need to plunge in after him, holding the baby and wearing my clothes? I pointed and shouted, "He needs some help!" but it was so noisy I was sure no one could hear me.

Almost instantly, though, the lifeguard's whistle blew and in she went. She fished him out and set him on the side, a little shaken; I raced around and scooped him up. On the edge of tears, he said, "I kicked my feet but it didn't help."

I am remembering my first summer at Girl Scout camp, when I could just barely swim. I went down the big water slide and landed in water over my head, where I panicked. I remember the feeling of abject terror, the frenzied attempt to fight my way to the side. No one noticed me struggling.

I am grateful for this lifeguard's vigilance. (I told her boss about it, too.) Pete is fine and I should let it go myself. I keep replaying it in my mind, though: my little guy trying to keep up with his brother, losing his footing and not being able to find it again. His hair, dark under the water. I cannot reach him and no one hears me shout.