Lisa Geichman Prosek

His name was Steve. He was a high school student, handsome, muscular, and tan. Dreamboat. The brother of a friend, and I’d had a crush on him for a long time. All the other ten-year-old girls were looking at him, giggling, and flirting.

All I could see were my feet holding tight to the side of the pool. I was bent at the waist, hands over my head, in a diving pose.

“Come on. It’s okay… Come on. You can do it. I’m right here…”

Poor Steve. He was trying to be patient and supportive, but my feet wouldn’t let go of the cement. I stood like that at the city pool’s deep end for what seemed like an hour on that bright July morning.

“Come on…”

“I’m trying…”

We went through this for at least ten minutes. Long enough for Steve’s irritation to glint through his smile.

I just couldn’t make myself jump. I tried and tried. I could hear whispers from my swimming-class associates. I heard the little kids on the other side of the pool jumping into the pool one after the other. “Great job!” their instructor crowed.

I closed my eyes and imagined my dive. I could hear the clean splash. Feel the glory as the water washed over my body. The water going into my ears. The little burn of the chlorinated water in my nostrils. I could see Steve’s smiling face as he helped me back to the side of the pool. I could feel the pride emanating from deep inside myself.

But it never happened.

What was I afraid of? Drowning? No. Hitting my head on the bottom? No. That Steve wouldn’t be out there to help me back to the side of the pool if I forgot how to swim? No. None of those things even entered my mind.

I was afraid of failure.

I was afraid that I wouldn’t execute my dive properly. That I’d look silly. That the other girls would laugh. That gorgeous Steve would be disappointed.

It never occurred to me at the moment that I was disappointing myself. That the sticky glue holding my feet to the side of the pool was betraying me. That the best thing that could happen to me would have been to dive into the water ungracefully. At least I’d have tried.

It’s kind of like writing. I’ve often been afraid of having people read my literary writing. Afraid that I might make a fool of myself. Afraid that people might snicker or otherwise belittle me.

But I’ve decided to jump in. To swan dive, belly flop, inadvertently cannonball. Whatever gets me into the water. It’s time. I owe it to myself.

What I didn’t know back when I was ten years old and my toes grasped the side of the pool is that making an ugly dive–even a belly flop–and going to the bottom of the pool is okay. It’s touching the bottom of the pool that often helps us reach the top again.