Dad says if you try hard enough you can drown in a teacup. In two stern bobs of an Adam’s apple he downs his tea, bringing the cup down hard the cup in the middle of the saucer with a scrape I can feel somewhere between my shoulder blades.
The heads of the delicate pink roses that pattern Grandma’s china are bent earthwards. As if they haven’t yet had a chance to turn their faces to the sun. Or they’re already wilting.
I consider the volume of liquid in the cup. The amount of water I must never swallow through my nose.
At 8, these are words a girl can drown in.
At Phys Ed I let the others line up ahead of me, playing for time. Certain the fire alarm will go or the teacher will change her mind about the whole damn exercise because two things are true: I know I can’t do this and I know I can’t fail.
Everyone meets the water with their fingertips, without hesitation. Giggling girls in fluorescent swimming caps collect in a corner and turn in my direction.
Toes curled on the edge, I tuck my chin, raise my arms as the bleachy scent invades my nostrils. I crouch, but with no evidence of commitment, the teacher presses the pads of her fingers into my back. It is just a nudge I am not ready for.
My whole body stings onto the surface. Graceless, I slow-motion flap with my eyes scrunched shut, begging God my body isn’t pointing the wrong way.
The others seem to know what to do when the wave machine starts; when to jump and when to plunge. I am rhythmless. Wave surge over my head, the shapes of bright bodies softening around me. My breaths gurgle when I snatch the surface for a second. I don’t want to make a scene but it occurs to me there’s a very real chance I’m drowning this time. I try to wave at the lifeguard, dragging water into my lungs, wondering how many teaspoons make a teacup.
Years later, I realise all I had to do was turn my back on the waves, walk to the shallow end. That was all I needed to do. But I cling to the side, my arms stretching like gum until I figure out how to use the swell, and haul myself out onto the side. Not for the last time, I have to be my own rescuer.
Years later, I sputter out another length. Bringing my arms down with inelegant slaps, I lift my head up like I’m not supposed to when I turn.
You’re getting better. Relax into it, and slow down. You’re doing fine.
I try to believe he’s not paying me lip service, and I realise this is the hardest thing, harder than the techniques; to trust new words that aren’t 30 years old.
And I need them. I need them like air.
One day, I am a blade. Slick and dark, I slice the swell, the water beneath throbbing and shrinking. The ocean’s voice is the only one I hear when I turn and breathe the salt-air. And my own as I exhale.
You’re fine. You always were.