At eleven, I decided to learn to swim. There was a pool at the Y.M.C.A. offering exactly the opportunity. Mother continually warned against it, and kept fresh in my mind the details of each drowning in the river. But the Y.M.C.A. pool was safe.
I had a childhood fear of water. This started when I was three years old and father took me to the beach. The huge waves knocked me down and swept over me. The pool was quiet. I was afraid of going in all alone, so I sat on the side of the pool to wait for others. Then came a big boy. He yelled, "Hi, Skinny! How'd you like to be ducked?" With that he picked me up and threw me into the deep end. I landed in a sitting position, and swallowed water. But I was not frightened out of my wits — when my feet hit the bottom, I would make a big jump, come out of the surface. It seemed a long way down. I gathered all my strength when I landed and made what I thought was a great spring upwards. Then I opened my eyes and saw nothing but water. I tried to yell but no sound came out. I went down, down, endlessly.
When I came to consciousness, I found myself lying on the bed in the hospital.
I never went back to the pool. I avoided water whenever I could. This misadventure stayed with me as the years rolled by. It deprived me of the joy of boating and swimming. Finally, I decided to get an instructor. Piece by piece, he built a swimmer. Several months later, the instructor was finished, but I was not. Sometimes the terror would return.
This went on until July. I swam across the Lake Wentworth. Only once did the terror return. When I was in the middle of the lake, I put my face under and saw nothing but bottomless water. I laughed and said, "Well, Mr. Terror, what do you think you can do to me?"
I had conquered my fear of water.
