Jump

Their little bodies shivered in the cool summer morning breeze. All lined up in a neat straight row, the children listened intently. Their instructor detailed the steps they would each take.

"Don't worry," she said, "I will be there with you."

The first little boy climbed the steps and walked gingerly to the edge where she was waiting. He glanced over the precipice, arms pinned to his side, as if to shield him from the impact he was about to endure. She carefully placed her hands on his shoulders and with a gentle push, he disappeared from view, falling into the water.

I held my breath.

With a splash, my little 3.5 ft wonder bobbed to the surface and was assisted to the edge of the pool by the waiting lifeguard. He deftly climbed out, eager to jump again.

It amazes me that on Monday, my oldest was just learning to swim and by Thursday, his teachers were thrusting these half-pints off of a diving board into 12 feet of water. Off the deep end... Over 3.4 times deeper than he is tall... Way over his head...

Not the case when I was little. My instructors waited and waited for me to put my head under the water. I just couldn't do it. My instructors prodded, my Mom promised candy, and my Dad offered inspirational encouragement. Still no go.

After considerable angst, the family was at odds. What to do? Learning to swim was not optional. It was a life-saving necessity and could not be waylaid by a stubborn 5 year old. My older sis, tired of the spectacle, decided to take the matter into her own hands. One night during my bath, she purposefully walked into the bathroom, grabbed my head, pushed it under the water, and held it there. How quiet it was! I looked around, catching the rippled fragments of my sister's face just above the surface. This isn't so bad, I thought in wonder. From then on, I was a fish.

Compelling, what a well-placed and timely dunk can achieve.