That moment will always be engraved into my inner most thoughts. Kicking. Screaming. Using every single ounce of energy I had left to fight back. Paddling with all my might, knowing that at any second, the rapids could sweep me under and I’d disappear and never return.

When children are younger, their parents usually take their children to swimming lessons, and teach them how to swim at a young age. For my family, that wasn’t the case. We were always moving around from town to town, hardly ever actually settling in. My parents never bothered to send us through swimming lessons. Since my sister was a natural at it, they assumed I would be as well.

I’ve always had a fear of water. When I was 4, we had a swimming pool, and I would only go in if I had my floaties or if my parents would go swimming with me. It was just a fear I had grown up with, and never got over it. What made that fear worse was when I tried to throw our cat in the pool for scratching me, and nearly killing my sister, who tried to save it and almost drowned before my dad came running out and saved her. From 4 years old, I’ve been terrified to touch water.

By the time I was 12, I became less and less scared of the water. I would go swimming at the aquatic center in Bellingham, swim in my friends’ pools, and have play dates with friends at Lake Whatcom. Every summer, some friends and my family go to Eastern Washington during 4th of July, where they have property right along the Methow River. My friends were all adrenaline psyched, so they craved floating down the river every year we went camping. Me on the other hand, I never went. I would wade in the water where it was shallow, avoiding rapids as much as possible. For some reason, I would never get over my fear of water, until one summer, where one mistake instantly changed my life forever.
“Hey Linds, you wanna go across the river with our dads where they’re fishing?” Karissa asked.
Since our dads were walking across with us, I felt safe and crossed the river to the small island where our dads wanted to go fishing. Karissa was a strong swimmer, and I trusted her to keep us from slipping into the rapids. The river was high around this time of year, with the snow melting and creating quick rapids.

“We should cross that small part right over there so we can swim in the pool where there are no rapids.” I suggested to Karissa. The crossing was only about 10 feet wide, and the rapids weren’t moving as fast as the rest of the river. Holding hands, we slowing embarked across the narrow crossing to the river bank. About halfway there, Karissa slipped on a slippery rock, and tumbled down the rapids, of course dragging me along. We let go, and she swam safely to shore, while I struggled to get out of the rapids. I didn’t know how to swim. Why didn’t my parents teach me how to swim? I used my pathetic “doggy paddle”, but continued to be swept by the rapids. By this time, my dad had realized that I was floating away.

“Lindsay! Swim!” He yelled. He jumped into the water hoping to reach me, but I was already drifting past him. I had no strength. I didn’t know what to do. All I could do was paddle with all my might to the edge and hope to cling onto something. And if I didn’t do something quick, I would disappear for good.

I could see it right ahead of me. A giant rock, just within my reach, that I could cling on. I reached for it, and with enough strength, I clung to the rock, and drug myself out of the water. Laying on the river bank, waiting for my dad to run over and make sure I’m okay.

“Don’t ever, ever, do that to me again, Lindsay.” He said. I began to cry hysterically.

“I know, Dad. I’m sorry.”

I knew from that moment on I would never go swimming in the river ever again.