The Bottomless Swimming Hole
I suppose we all have certain fears that we carry from childhood into adulthood. The curious thing about such fears is when we trace them back to when and why they began.
I have a fear of swimming in foreign bodies of water. That is to say, any body of water where I cannot see the bottom. I wouldn’t say I am aquaphobic, because not every source of water causes me an excessive amount of anxiety. I can take a bath without freaking out and I love swimming in the crystal clear water of a swimming pool; both bodies of water where I can see the bottom, emphasis on “see the bottom.”
I am quite leery and downright afraid of swimming in any body of water where I can’t clearly see the bottom and which might contain creatures in their natural environment who are either hungry or angry, because they instinctively know humans don’t belong there.
I keenly remember when my high school buddy, Don, and I decided we would be like all the other seniors in high school and ditch school to go swimming in Lake Mead. The only problem was neither one of us had ever made the trip with anyone from school who knew where the best swimming spots were.
Nonetheless, Don and I determined to be rebels like all of our other classmates, jumped into my ’57 Chevy, and drove 45 minutes in the opposite direction of Clark High School to spend a joyous day of swimming in Lake Mead; the largest water reservoir in the United States. That fact in itself causes my heart to palpitate.
Having no clue where to swim, we pulled over at some random spot where, as I look back, I am certain not a soul had ever swam in before. No sooner than our feet touched the water, I could tell, by our conversation, that Don must have struggled with the same unspoken fear of the water. This fear was evident by the tentativeness in our voices as we conversed, trying to convince ourselves that this was a safe thing to do.
In our hesitancy, it quickly became apparent to me that if we didn’t get serious about this swimming adventure, the day would end without even getting our cutoffs wet. Swimming in cutoff jeans with frayed edges was the swimwear fashion of the ‘70s.
With our hearts beating at a faster pace than normal, I told Don we were being ridiculous. Pointing towards a floating buoy a few hundred yards away from shore, I exhorted, “Let’s go for it and swim out to that buoy together!” He agreed, and on the count of three we simultaneously lunged headlong into the water.
Like poorly synchronized swimmers, we glided along the water. We were not that far from shore, about half way to the buoy, but it became obvious that we were far enough away that we could not see the bottom. All of a sudden, Don yelled, “Something’s got my leg!” That was all I needed to hear. Instantly, panic set in and brought an abrupt halt to any thought of reaching our destination. My adrenal glands performed magnificently and released whatever adrenaline necessary to make the fastest aqua u-turn on record, and I frantically began to swim back to shore. I had no intent of sticking around to see what underwater beast had grabbed Don’s leg. I quickly surmised that by the time the fiend had finished with Don, I would be safely back on dry land.
Within seconds after breathlessly landing on shore, my gasping, unscathed friend joined me. Once we regained our bearings, we were able to think clearly and speak without stuttering. We quickly concluded that the sea creature was simply several extra-long strings from the frayed edges of his cutoffs. They had wrapped around his leg.
We climbed onto the hot vinyl seat of my car and drove home.
Where did this unreasonable fear of foreign bodies of water come from, a fear which continues to haunt me to this day?
As I ponder this conundrum, I conclude that my fear was birthed ten years earlier on the day that my dad convinced me to jump into the bottomless swimming hole.
My 14 year old brother George and I were in Nevada visiting dad for the summer. As it turned out, what I thought was going to be just another summer outing turned into my worst nightmare.
All kinds of crazy things ran through the mind of this 8 year old when I heard that the family was going to swim in an artesian well which had no bottom. Shortly after arriving at the swimming hole, George declared, “I’m going to swim to the bottom!” With nary a moment to comprehend what was happening, I watched my brother dive into the crystal clear cavernous water.
I stood terrified as I watched my beloved brother working his way downward through the twists and turns of the mineral deposits. In my young mind, I was certain that I had just seen my brother for the last time. Fortunately, after a couple of attempts he never made it, hence the adjective “bottomless.”
I imagine that Dad could see how traumatized I was over the whole escapade. It seemed that he saw very clearly, which would explain why he jumped in and, while treading water, invited me to join him. He insisted how fun and safe it would be.
George, who now stood on the opposite bank, joined Dad in his coaxing. After what seemed like forever, with my heart pounding, I took a deep breath and jumped into the water and towards my father’s open arms.
All was well, kind of. That is, until Dad got a severe cramp in his leg and started to sink. This was my cue to panic. I started to scream and uncontrollably thrash about while Dad was trying to massage the cramp out of his leg and hang on to me at the same time. In a last ditch effort to bring things under control, Dad yelled out to George, “Grab Ron!” And with a mighty thrust he propelled me towards the extended arms of my brother who pulled me safely out of the bottomless swimming hole.
I am at peace with my fear of not swimming in foreign bodies of water and contentedly conclude that if we were meant to do so, God would have given us gills.
