True Stories Of Near Drowning

Psychologists say that floating in water is akin to the warm embrace of the womb. Deathologists say drowning is perhaps the best way to die, that a euphoric sensation supposedly blankets one’s consciousness right before losing it. But as someone who almost drowned twice as a child, I say they’re full of shit.

The first time I almost drowned (c. 1984), I was reveling in those heady preschool days of childish enthusiasm and youthful naïveté. My mother had enrolled me in swimming lessons in a neighbor’s pool. I remember only the following horrifying details:

Scratching desperately at the tiled side of the pool, I watched tranquil shafts of sunlight waver in the water. I tried to cram my stubby fingertips into the grout of the pool’s tile, trying–and failing–to find some sort of handhold. Alone and sinking downward, a shrill series of screams left my young mouth–but they were lost as soon as they were uttered, transformed into mute bubbles. An eternity later, the heavy water darkened around me. My limbs grew weary from frantic windmilling; my lungs ached; my eyes closed, surrendering.

As I choked and sputtered with the sting of chlorine, a hand reached down into the shadowy depths and yanked me upward to the bright air. Gasping and shivering, I realized my savior had been not my mother–who was sitting off to the side of the pool, reading–but the pool’s owner, Jeanine.

“Mom!” I stammered. “Jeanine just saved me from drowning! I was sinking but she grabbed me an–”

“Bullshit,” my mom said, in that kind way only a sympathetic mother can calm her nearly dead child.

But I knew what I knew, and no matter how many times my mother attempted to assuage me with firm repeats of “Bullshit, Erik” on the drive home, I still know it. Were it not for Jeanine–who later gave me some gum, too–I’d probably still be floating in that backyard pool.

The second time (c. 1990) was after I’d been forced to enlist in the Boy Scouts (again by my mother). Harboring a justified and severe distrust of bodies of water, I was one of three boys at camp who couldn’t swim.

But that didn’t stop the camp counselors, who heartlessly tossed us three lame ducks into the middle of an ice-cold mountain lake. Floundering, we futilely attempted to grab onto each other. Most of my vision was clouded by violent splashes and panicked flesh. But I could still make out the other members of Troop #351, laughing and pointing from the shore. Their cruel taunts echoed in the pristine Rocky Mountain air.

Eventually, somebody tossed us a rope and we pulled ourselves to shore. I’m pretty sure my Scoutmaster made some snide comment about how I wouldn’t be getting the swimming merit badge anytime soon. And, I’m pretty sure I proved him right. I quit the Boy Scouts shortly afterward.

Still, I did learn two things from my drowning experiences–like how it sucks to drown, and how you can never trust anybody to save your drowning ass, even if you’re an adorable little kid.