What Evil Lurks Below The Surface?

It’s Captain Ahab time again. That time of year when mutant sea creatures loom just below the surface of every swimming pool, river and lake. Undertoad season, otherwise known to the water-friendly as summer. I have another name for it: the big Moby.

I learned to swim the old fashioned way; I was thrown in over my head and didn’t drown. My father, mistaking me for a Labrador retriever, tossed me off the side of a boat into the not quite balmy waters of Diamond Lake. I was a little kid with a big and sometimes dangerous imagination.

“Dog paddle,” he yelled in encouragement.

“Throw me one,” I screamed back.

Something brushed against my foot, probably a goldfish, and I clawed my way back to the side of the boat.

“Good job,” he said.

Gee, thanks, coach. By the way, did you know there are alligators in the lake?

That same year two more events occurred that further skewed my view of the water: “Pinocchio” and “Moby Dick.” I saw both movies in the same week.

First, there was the wide-eyed puppet-boy being chased by Monstro, the crazed whale. Then there was the peg-legged Ahab strapped to the furious white body of Moby.

The angry black eye of the leviathan rolled back to give Ahab one triumphant last look before the final dive. Thar she blows!

That night my mom left the hall light on outside my room. My bedroom door was left slightly ajar. The light, a tiny slit in an otherwise black room, looked to my newly discerning mind like the eye of a deranged whale starring back at me.

He watched me off and on for two weeks before finally dissolving into the sunlight. I never saw him clearly again. But his huge black shadow had cast its spell.

I took the typical fearful swimmer’s question - Can I touch bottom here? - to the next level - Can anything living here near the bottom touch me? It wasn’t just that I feared water. I feared what lived in it. This is a slightly difficult position to maintain when looking over the precipice of a highly chlorinated hot tub. But I did my best.

Finally, I’d had enough of watching from the sidelines. I was ready to wade in. I saw an ad for a swimming program call Pro Swim. It was designed specifically for adults who had either never learned to swim or had learned early on to fear the water. I figured I qualified.

There were about 10 of us in the class, the youngest about 18, the oldest around 70. We all looked perfectly normal until we got into the water. Then we all looked like the wild bunch from the Titanic. The ones who hurled themselves into the lifeboats and left Grandma on board. Well hey, she could swim.

We met every week at Deaconess Hospital. Our classes were held in the rehab pool. Yes, the big tub that’s about 6 feet deep at the deep end. Into this vast body of water we plunged with snorkel masks and swimming fins. The fins for flotation, the masks for better vision. I kept on the lookout for moray eels.

Our final exam was to swim the length of the pool at the YWCA. Five-year-olds swam laps around us as we prepared for the big test. Despite the potent ego booster, we all passed. I swam my best time ever, glancing only occasionally at the pool’s bottom for the shadow of Moby. That day, I outswam him.

Sadly, our teacher, the magical mermaid, moved to a bigger city. Our little group of aging guppies broke up. Some of us got landlocked again. People who learn to swim as adults have a high rate of recidivism. Stuff like jobs, families and seven months of winter cut into our practice time.

But this year I’m prepared. I’ve got my swim fins and snorkel mask packed. I’m ready to face the big Moby. All I need now is a harpoon.

The following fields overflowed: CREDIT = Kathleen Corkery Spencer The Spokesman-Review