Twice Drowning

Water, water, everywhere........ and nor any drop to drink.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Drowning is a dangerous business.

The first time

My first experience with drowning was when I was just a little boy maybe seven or eight. It happened in the surf of the Gulf of Mexico at our cabin on Panama City Beach, Laguna Beach to be exact in the panhandle of Florida. It was a quiet afternoon and my older brother David and I were playing on the sugar sand beach in the edge of the surf just below the cabin. Up at the cabin our parents and a number of adult relatives were busily playing Canasta or Rook or some other card game and probably having a cocktail or two. Mother and daddy were not big drinkers but if the guests were drinking so did my parents, especially my dad. Card games usually entertained us because at that time there was no television there. Actually television was not really available anywhere because it was still in its infancy in 1949 and 1950. Few places in south Alabama much less in that area of the Florida gulf coast had much in the way of entertainment outside of the sandy beach, a few carnivals and miniature golf courses. Mostly we played in the water, skied, snorkeled or participated in water activities of some sort. We also went fishing in the gulf and in two fresh water ponds across the street from our cabin.

 My parents let me spend time on the beach with my brother but there were rules imposed that you were suppose to adhere to.  We rarely did. Smiling David asked, “Tommy do you want to swim out to the second sand bar with me?” I said, “No it’s too far, too deep and besides there are sharks out there.” He replied, “Don’t be a sissy, come on, I’ll show you where to step. “ Reluctantly I followed. He knew how to tread water; I had not as yet learned. When we got over our heads he began treading the salty water raising his entire chest out of the liquid surrounding him. He said, “Come on out here, there is a sandbar just under my feet; you can reach it if you try.” Swimming even further out frantically jabbing my feet towards his, I found no bottom. He back pedaled deeper into the gulf. “Come on little baby. Surely you can make it if I can, “he called, laughing. Again I moved through the cool briny water into even deeper regions. My arms and legs began to weaken. I inhaled a mouthful of water. With considerable spluttering and coughing from the intake, I paddled after him. He glided further away, effortlessly treading his way into deeper areas still. He laughed and said, “Come on, come on, I am going to leave you out here where a shark will get you, if you don't come on.” Finally exhausted, I slipped beneath the small waves moving across the surface of the water, breathing in more of the gulf. David watched, smiling. Hysterical at this point, I pushed myself back up and broke the surface with a panicked cry and sucked in a mouthful of air and more water just before I went down again. My arms and legs were burning from the exertion. Below the waves I realized I was crying, sucking salt water into my lungs, more coughing and spluttering. Once more I weakly surfaced; within arm’s reach he was still looking at me curiously. Then I went down again! Running through my head was the thought that this was it; you go down three times before you finally drown. Everybody knows that! Just as I went down for the last time sucking more salty water into my body strange floating things crossed my vision. I felt David grab me by the arm. He pulled me back to the surface. Paddling through the water he dragged me towards shore. I was gagging and sobbing hysterically. On my hands and knees in the sand, I cried uncontrollably, coughed, gagged and puked the salty gulf out through my nose and mouth. It spewed into the sand along with some small remains of my yet undigested lunch. Walking away David arrogantly said, “I’m going to tell everyone in the house that I saved your life today." I replied sobbing, “If you do I'll tell them you tried to kill me! And by the way I hate your guts!”

He had saved me from drowning as surely as he had almost intentionally drowned me. I was left sobbing, coughing up salt water through my nose and mouth. He walked back towards the cabin. I noticed that he was not laughing anymore. I was never sure whether David saved me from drowning because he cared about me, whether he was afraid of what might happen when he got back to the cabin or whether he was afraid someone on the beach might have been watching us and seen him intentionally drown his little brother. Probably it was a little bit of all those things. Perhaps he intended to drown me but changed his mind at the last moment. Maybe instead he was just the cat and I was just the mouse. He toyed with me thinking it over; should I let him die or should I pull him out. Being the third child he rarely had any power over anyone and this maybe was one of those illusive moments for him. Strange, neither of us ever mentioned that afternoon again.

The second time

In late September of 1958, I went to live in St. Petersburg, Florida for a year, at a military school at my parent’s insistence.

Driving down the two lane road that left southern Alabama and pushed itself into the northernmost panhandle of Florida; the landscape changed. Familiar pines and flora were gradually replaced by broadleaved evergreens and Palms. The soil became sandy and everything about the landscape was unfamiliar. We drove for hours until we finally came to the city of St. Petersburg. Meandering our way through the suburbs, we eventually found the school. It was a very busy place with young boys of High School and Junior High age being dropped off by their parents from very nice cars. Cadillac cars, Lincolns and other upscale vehicles were cluttering the entrance to the campus. Royal Palms waved their finger like leaves at us seductively as a soft breeze filtered through them. Boys with their parents and younger siblings milled about registering and moving large trunks into the ancient looking tan building. Looking at all this, made my stomach turn cold. It was true! They were going to leave me in this strange and unfamiliar place. Months ago I started stealing myself up so that I would not care what they did but underneath I was anxious and scared. Being fifteen, the youngest of four sons I had been far from an ideal child. Certainly no scholar and lacking any self control I established a reputation in the neighborhood and in the family as an unpredictable hellion who would do anything at all. As a wits end effort they final decided to send me to this military school in south Florida. They thought it would, “Make a man of him”, so Daddy said. At fifteen I had no intention of doing anything he wanted me to do. Amazingly I managed to do that for a very long time.

After moving into a very small room with no air-conditioned in the dorm I realized that there were three other boys my age that were all going to share this less that roomy space, with one bathroom. All three of these boys were from South America, fluent in Spanish and very worldly. They seemed nice enough and were old hands at being away from their home and parents. I decided I would be the same. I would never be homesick! The school was full of boys from the north and from families that had moved to Florida for one reason or another. They had a fascination with the way I pronounced my words, my accent. Many of them would invite me home for the weekend with them just so their parents could hear me speak. I was a celebrity, of sorts, for a while. Who knew I had an accent? South Alabama had plenty of people who spoke the same way I did. In fact, all of them did.

There were many Hispanic boys from South America and Spanish was spoken much of the time. After a shocking week or two, I became acclimated to the military routine, marching, saluting, spit shining shoes and all the other routines that take place in the manly military environment. Inspections were a big deal and it took hours to get ready for them. Spit shining your shoes, polishing your belt buckle, cleaning your school issued rifle and so many other things that to me were of no importance. At one major inspection I was standing in rank in the boiling south Florida sun, anxious and worried that I might not pass the serious inspection. The company captain stepped in front of me doing the preliminary inspection before the “Big Dog” that was following him did his. The captain looked down at me and whispered, “Your fly is undone!” At first I did not understand what he said. I whispered back, “What?” He whispered again, “Your fly is down.” Again I offered, “What, I don't know what you mean.” In desperation he again whispered, “Your pants are unzipped, stupid!” That was the first time in my life I had heard that expression. Calling your zipper a “fly” was totally unknown to me. Frantically I reached to the front of my pants just as the Commander stepped in front of me. Being in such a panic I had inadvertently released my hold on the rifle in order to grip and zip up my pants. It takes two hands to zip up pants. The rifle careened forward and struck the Commander directly in the crotch of his pants. He instantly bent over and grunted, "Aruggg," and simultaneously stumbled backwards! All I could think was,” SHIT, I'm dead! “I had failed the inspection and assaulted the Company Commander all in the same instant. The guys behind me snickered uncontrollably.

Weekly inspections of the rooms we lived in were held most Saturday mornings. Everything had to be perfect. The shoes shined, the floors spotless, the garments on the clothes hangers in the small closets had to be exact, two finger widths apart on the rail. All towels had to be folded and neatly stacked in the foot lockers. The walls washed, the windows spotless, everything had to be extraordinarily clean and shiny. There was even a small wash cloth that had to be perfectly folded and displayed on the head board of every boy's bed. This I never understood until

one night in a dream that took me underwater in a crystal clear pool. A beautiful girl was there swimming in a one piece bathing suit, doing large lazy backwards circles, submerged in the blue liquid. Her long blond hair flowed down her back and shimmered beneath the water. I swam over to her, arched my back, mimicking her in those very erotic circular maneuvers. Following her closely she and I became equal parts of one circle, going slowly around and around underneath the water, like hands of a clock, her head at my feet, my head at her feet. I moved up her legs, while ever so slowly my face turned and slid up to her knees. She did not seem to notice or care. There was a distinct smell of Coppertone even though we were under the water. My face slid ever so slowly, further up her thighs. Finally I got to a point where my nose perfectly fit into the perfect little triangular juncture of her two legs and her torso. It was like a puzzle piece that had been waiting to fit only into this exact space. I convulsed, in my sleep, with my head between her legs, under the blue water, in my little military school bed. It then became clear to me what the wash cloth was doing hanging within a few inches of my head. This was the first time I had ever had a wet dream and for a long time afterwards I tried to recreate the same experience. It rarely happened again much to my frustration.

Actually I adapted quite well to military school, all things considered. It took me a while to realize that becoming invisible was the best option for me, another average face in a long line of ordinary faces. My mantra was, make no waves. The fewer people who know your name, the better off you are. Do not walk funny, do not look funny and most of all, do not talk funny. Well, two out of three was not bad. Many of the boys, especially the younger ones were sent to the president's office by the upper-class men to ask his secretary for a masturbation license. They were told that it was required by the end of that same day, most went. Some days the poor lady would have twelve or fifteen young boys come in requesting this particular document. There were others that were sent a half a mile to the boat docks to get forty feet of shore line, or the keys to the oar locks. Usually they were sent by an officer or an older more experienced student. These green boys had no idea what any of these things meant. It was sort of like me and the "fly" fiasco. Luckily I had heard about hazing and those kinds of things shortly after I got to the school.

In the back area of the campus there was a swimming pool surrounded by a chain link fence bordered by beautifully colored Crotons and twining Mandevilla vines covered with huge lemon colored flowers. Surprisingly it was accessible any time, by students when they felt like going in for a swim. I found this ironic for a place that had so many rules that applied to every aspect of your life. There were no life guards to control the boys who swam and played as they liked. Frequently the upper class men were in the pool having raucous water fights that were border line violent. Their large bodies thrashed and pushed each other under water with strength and ferocity that was surprising. My body, at fifteen was not quite up to competing with these boys who had two to three years on me. They were sixteen, seventeen and eighteen and large for their age. What I lacked in stature I made up for in a bad temper and attitude, or so everyone said. The particular afternoon my second near drowning occurred, was sunny and beautiful. A swim, I thought was just what I needed. There was no place to change into bathing suits at the pool so I had already put mine on in the dorm room. I approached the pool with my towel loosely hanging around my neck and barefooted. As usual the bigger boys were attacking each other in the water. Sitting on the edge of the pool I watched closely the struggle between these big guys. I was not small for my age but my growth spurt had only just begun and I had not yet adjusted to my new found strength and coordination. At five foot ten and weighing one hundred and thirty pounds I was not small, but not large, tallish and skinny.

One of the giants called me from the middle of the pool, “Hey you, come on in, we need you to be on our team, we’re one short”. I was not sure what to do so I got into the water and swam out to where the confrontation was taking place. At first the wrestling overwhelmed me but I discovered that I could compete with them if I really put forth the effort. The water fight escalated into a frenzied struggle between the two so called teams. A point came when I was pushed deep into the water and several large, immovable bodies were on top of me. I was pushed deeper and deeper still, to the bottom of the pool. I needed air and I needed it desperately. Still they kept me trapped in the many hairy legs and torsos thrashing above me. I panicked but the panic only made me struggle harder to reach the surface and air. Again my efforts were thwarted. I thought they were keeping me down so that they could actually drown me. Maybe they had planned this and it was not just an accident. They were actually trying to kill me! My panic became critical. I hit the bottom of the pool again and felt my burning lungs suck in a stream of water. It filled them and shocked my body and mind. I was going to drown, just like the time David lured me out into the deep water eight or ten years ago at the beach. The floating things reappeared in my vision just like the first time I almost drowned. As one final effort I swung my arm upward and tried to extricate myself from the tangle of legs and arms holding me beneath the water. Apparently my fingers were so positioned that the fingernails were extended like a cat. I made contact with someone above me and my fingernails tore across the skin on the chest of one of the boys. Again I struck upwards with frantic effort hitting someone or something else! My lungs constricted and expelled the water they had taken in. Again I inhaled a second rush of water. I was feeling intoxicated by the inhalation of the chlorinated water.

Suddenly the body traffic above me diminished and after a couple of weak pushes I reached the surface, almost drowned. My lungs were vomiting water. It spewed out of my mouth and nose like a garden hose, a cloudy slimy chlorine gush. The pool was still when I surfaced, coughing and spluttering. The largest boy in the water stood looking down at his chest, water draining from his hair and ears. There were four long vermilion stripes that stretched across his chest from his clavicle across one nipple down to the bottom of his rib cage. There were bloody tributaries running down to the hair around his navel. The other boys in the circle stared at him. One Hispanic boy had the same stripes from his left eye to the bottom of his chin. Blood leaked at an alarming rate from the lines on his face. Both boys were bleeding profusely and it tinted the water in the pool around them a pinkish color. He screamed, “You fucking ass hole, what’s wrong with you?” The second boy erupted, “Culo cago!” I responded with yet another stream of projectile chlorine water vomit erupting from my mouth and nose with an involuntary “uggruhh?” The pool cleared as they quickly moved away from the liquid my body had rejected. Standing on the wet concrete surrounding the pool they watched me. “Stupid red neck fuck”, they all agreed and turned and walked through the gate in the chain link fence. The dark Hispanic boy with the scratches on his face, looked at me over his shoulder as he left the pool and said,”Maricon, cabron, ay mio tu eres un pendeho!” I did not say anything back to him but I was pretty sure it was not a complement. As he passed through the gate the boy snatched a handful of the Mandvilla's leaves and threw them aside in disgust.

After a few minutes I climbed out of the pool and walked back towards the dorm. On the concrete walkway I noticed an irregular trail of small bloody spots the two boys had left behind.

Of course, I didn't actually drown at the times I have written about but the experiences truly could have gone either way.

 tbd