i.
We grew up on a lake – all dark water and dirty sand, boat oars and life preservers. My father always swore that nothing was more important than knowing how to swim. By six, I had mastered an impressive doggy paddle. By nine, I knew how to dive, albeit with one hand firmly grasping my nose. My father was always more driftwood than flesh, skin hard and weathered from years of sun and toil. While fishing, I once caught his ear with a lure following a particularly enthusiastic cast. In horror, I watched him dance about, swearing profusely, eventually dislodging the hook with his bare hands.
He was a barrel of a man, the kind of person who looked a bit too dense for water sports. But sure enough, he was the best swimmer I knew. Plunging back and forth, he did them all: the breaststroke, the backstroke, the butterfly stroke – even imitating The Creature from the Black Lagoon to my giggling delight. In the water, he was a true vision of grace. But every time before he swam, he would cross himself – dipping finger tips into the lake like holy water, asking the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit to keep him afloat. My mother and I marveled at the ritual. “That’s the only time that man ever prays,” she’d remark, confused by the sudden piety. She wasn’t wrong; despite a traditional Catholic upbringing, my father was not a very religious man. Yet without fail we’d watch him every time, wading knee-deep into the water, embodying a stillness reserved only for those sacred moments.
ii.
When the cancer spread to his abdomen, the doctors explained that there was fluid collecting between the tissues of his lungs and chest, squeezing him, suffocating him from the inside. They inserted a drain to relieve the pressure, but the complications from the procedure produced their own set of miseries. Before that, the cancer was primarily situated in his neck, weaving itself around his esophagus and pharynx in a manner that made it inoperable. Esophageal squamous cell carcinoma. He couldn’t eat or drink for the first six months; the doctors warned us that despite the tracheotomy, the mass could still redirect fluid into his lungs, causing pneumonia. Nevertheless, I’d smuggle him ice chips from the nurses’ storeroom whenever he asked. Ice, Gatorade, Jolly Ranchers – seemingly innocuous things suddenly posed such a risk.
When I was five, he told me that a human being could drown in only three inches of water. With no further explanation, I grew fearful of the rainwater pooling along our dirt road. I’d stand at the edge of puddles, the tips of my rubber boots inching dangerously close, curious as to how something so shallow could breed such danger. I imagined their bottoms filled with quicksand, sucking unsuspecting puddle-jumpers to an untimely demise. I imagined whirlpools, with speeds so great that no one could escape. One of the last times he was able leave the hospital, we drove along the shoreline at dusk, watching porch lights glitter off the water’s stygian surface. He had not swum in years; I wondered if he missed it. We spent that night in silence, circling the same beach roads over and over. The irony of it all was not lost on me. He had prayed for so many years, we all somehow forgot that drowning isn’t always accidental – that you can drink yourself to death.
iii.
As kids, we used to compete to see who could stay underwater the longest. A group of us would swim out just over our heads, treading water, waiting for someone to say the magic words. “One, two, three, GO!” The secret was waiting until you heard someone else surface – until you heard the muddled, faint noise of frantic splashing and laughter. I have not swum in a lake in years; age has made me acutely aware of all that can lurk beneath the surface. My father once showed me how to remove a leech with a lighter, being careful not to burn himself in the process. I wonder if the neighbors still rake out the leaves from the shallows every spring.
The other night, I dreamt about his death again. Perhaps my sister does, too; I never ask. Some days, I see the tide rising in my reflection, and I do not know if I can hold my breath as long as he did. I like to remember him as he was then, standing in that lake, clad in those awful swim trunks he refused to throw out. It is not the first time, and I know it will never be the last, but God, do I wonder how long it will take to forget the sound of someone drowning inside of themselves.