Gone Swimming

I did not grow up in your average neighborhood. I say this simply because my neighborhood means more to me than it does to the average person. To the average kid a neighborhood is a place where you live, sleep, were raised, or maybe is significant because you were born down the street. Coming from someone who satisfies all those criteria, I doubt you could understand what my neighborhood means to me. The satisfaction of these basic benchmarks is not the reason that I love my neighborhood the way I do. What I hold dearest to me are the experiences, bonds, and memories that I have had the luck of encountering in the first 15 years of my life.
My best friends live in my neighborhood. Being raised together, we have been great friends since before I can remember. In my neighborhood the saying “it takes a village to raise a child” is more than a saying. It is the accepted way of life. I have more “parents” in my neighborhood than I can count on my fingers, and that is what makes my neighborhood special.

Our neighborhood sits on the edge of the C&O canal. That is not an exaggeration. We peer over the Potomac river, and if you cross the street you come to the steps of Lockhouse 6. I grew up with the feeling that more nature is concentrated in that green strip along the Potomac than anywhere else in the county. Many of my friends learned how to kayak at a young age, and bonded with the river and the culture that surrounds it. It took me longer to develop the same bond. I think that I was frightened by the things my dad had told me, the hidden dangers, currents, and undertows that lurked beneath the calm surface of the appealing water. I didn’t want to believe him, I didn’t want to worry about my friends and family, but his warnings about the dangers of the river were sufficient enough to keep me out of it (for many years of my young life). After all, he had been injured in a kayaking accident when he was just a little bit older than I am now, and it was obvious that he never thought of the river as gaily as he used to.

A little secret of mine is that I never passed the pool test. But I joined the swim team at the age of six anyway, and was capable in all four strokes by the end of that summer. I quickly grew to love the sport, even as much as my friends loved kayaking. Eventually though, I became more and more obsessed with the natural beauty of the river (though it was a little more slimey and filthy compared to the man-made pools I was used to). I often walked down to the river to watch the kayakers, let my dog Ralph swim around, or even put my toes in the water and let the rushing water cool me down. My friends would beckon me to jump in and hang on the backs of their boats. But remembering my dad’s warnings, I was too afraid. “Is the water high today?” “Is it too low?” “I think it’s a little cold” I could always find an excuse.

One day however, it was impossible for me to make an excuse. I took Ralph down to the river one spring afternoon. The rain started to fall lightly at first, but once we reached the river side it was pouring, the rain penetrating through the leaves of the trees around us. The strong winds spraying the water into our eyes should have been a clue to trudge back home. Yet for some reason Ralph and I marched on. The river began to gather its characteristic brown murk, and the water level was slowly rising. Yet, there was something calming about nature’s strength. Maybe it was that everyone else had headed home, or maybe it was that the rush of the water was growing increasingly loud, white noise to ease the mind. It was the perfect time to sit there and let your mind go blank. And Ralph felt it too. Most dogs were likely quivering back at home hearing the thunder strike, but Ralph kept his cool as he looked out over the river, his ears flapping in the gusty wind. He even went to the edge of a small rock hanging precariously over the water, and did his best impression of Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic. I looked up at the clouds above me, as dark as the depths of the river, and then I heard it. First came the creak, then a simultaneous splash and cry, I returned my attention to the river in front of me. It had pried the rock out from its home on the bank, and Ralph fell in with it. Quickly floating away from me, I could see his head bobbing above the surface of the water, seemingly helpless. The time for my first swim in the river had come, and I plunged in.

The brown water enveloped me. The rush of the water swept me away, and filled my mouth and nose. Without success, I tried to get the taste of the river water out of my mouth, but it was persistent, and unceasing. It was impossible to see anything without the sun, and the water was far foggier than anything I was used to. I put my feet in front of me (using the “nose and toes” method to travel downstream safely) and let the water carry me towards Ralph. But when I looked downstream, and I could hardly see him anymore, I started to worry. I abandoned safety and began swimming with the current at my back. I raced past debris, the current pushing me left and right, in ways I could not control. I began to hear a faint sound which was quickly escalating to a roar. I looked up and I saw the tan cement of a man made chute to facilitate the flow of the river. I had gained a considerable amount of ground on Ralph and I could see him travelling towards the chute pretty fast, gaining speed as he neared it, gravity vacuuming and sucking the murky water down like a mudslide. I then noticed Ralph change direction. He began to swim away from danger and towards me, panting with fatigue and worry. I realized if I could get to the bank and he could get to me we might be safe. I looked towards shore, less than a pool-length away, but I couldn’t see if there was anything to grab onto. However, it was my best and only option so I turned around as Ralph had, and started to swim headfirst into the current, the lightning striking around me. The flow of the river was strong with its newly accumulated volume, and it felt like I was swimming on a treadmill. I was breathing hard, and going nowhere. I kicked it up a notch, feeling the lactic acid accumulate in my arms and legs, the burn in my lungs desiring more oxygen than the air could provide. I started to inch towards shore, hoping Ralph was close behind. I was probably only swimming against the current for a minute or two, but I was winded, and aching by the time I got to shore. And my struggle was not over. I grabbed along the muddy banks, my hands slipping, unable to get a hold on the clay like surface. The current pulled me along the bank, and I had trouble finding a hand hold. I looked back and I saw Ralph was fighting the water too. And then my left hand hit a rock. I dug my nails underneath it, and waited for Ralph to reach me so I could lend my spare hand. The rock was no bigger than the rock that Ralph slipped in on, and it didn’t feel much more sturdy either. Ralph was getting close now, and I could see he was barking, though the roar of river overpowered his whimpering. I reached out to him and helped him to shore. He reached the edge and hopped out with finesse. I pulled myself out, my strength depleted, and lay on the bank for a moment with Ralph by my side.
The rain had stopped, but the clouds remained, a reminder of our struggle. I looked up at them, grateful that the river had not taken its anger out on Ralph and I, and thankful that I could return home to those who loved me, those who I loved.
We had floated so far down the river I had lost familiarity with the scenery. We stumbled through brush that had been left untouched for years until we came upon the towpath. We began the tedious walk upstream towards Lock 6, a trail of muddy footprints in the wet sand behind us.