A couple of days ago, I nearly died. It seems worth admitting.
The wife and kids and I went to a local beach on Sunday. A little lake with a sandy beach, a shallow swimming area, a dock where you can rent pedal boats on one side and a fishing pier on the other. While my wife supervises the 2-year-old sleeping in the car, we set up shop on a picnic table, lay out the towels, snacks, water bottles, squirt guns, a pail full of shovels and a beach ball.
First off the kids decide that Daddy should take them on a pedal boat ride (or is it a 'paddle boat'? It does require a lot of peddling...). We boat about the lake, riding to other side and back again. After much begging, I make up a superhero story for the ride.
One thing I should mention is that I was fasting that day. It was for a medical test and it turned out negative, so no worries, but I was really hungry. Feeling kind of weak. I'd intended to take it easy that day, but there I was out on the lake with the kids, furiously peddling the boat. And, with much banging of the dock, we made it back just fine and I worked up a little sweat and decided that this was good -- I'd gotten my 30 minutes of excercise in for the day.
At this point the romping and playing in the water begins. A massive squirt gun fight erupts.
The 2-year-old awakens, and my wife brings the pail, shovels and beach ball to the edge of the water. A mound-style castle is formed and the dirt around it is excavated and filled with water. Imaginary dragons patrol the moat. While vigorously defending myself from the onslaught of SuperSoakers, I break a squirt gun.
My wife interrupts with a shout: "The beach ball!"
The beach ball, it seems, has floated unnoticed to the boat dock. Another dad has a toddler in an inner tube floating off the dock, and is gamely trying to grab the ball as well.
"Don't let him do that," my wife says. "Go get the ball."
I sigh. I go to get the ball. The dad is now fumbling between his toddler and the ball as I jog to the dock. Finally, he chooses the toddler and lets the ball go. I reach the end of the dock. The dad shrugs and I laugh. Yeah, of course you'd choose the kid!
The ball is just out of reach, so I roll my eyes and reluctantly jump into the lake.
"It's pretty shallow here," the dad says helpfully.
The ball is a good, I don't know, 10 feet ahead. No problem. I forge ahead, trudging through the brown-green water with my arms up like a GI in a Vietnam movie.
Water's getting deeper. I'd probably get there a little faster if I swam. We'll start with a crawl. Don't want to go crazy -- I'll go heads-up style. Gotta keep my eye on the ball.
I maybe make up a foot or so. Getting kind of tired. How far have I swum?
I turn around. Whoa.
The dock looks rather small. For a moment, I recall that it actually took quite awhile to get this far ... in the boat. Hrm.
Ball's still out of reach. Maybe if I can just reach it, I can lean on it. I can float. Let's try a breast stroke. Always been my best. My form is perfect ... I can do this forever.
Wow. How far am I away now? The dock looks pretty small from here. The ball's still maybe, I don't know, 10 feet away. That's even farther than before. This might be a problem.
I strain to keep the rhythm -- sweep arms, breathe, head down, frog kick, glide, sweep arms, breathe, head down, frog kick, glide -- my heart is pounding. I'm getting tired.
But, I came out here for the ball. I'm breathing hard. I can't go back without the ball.
It's at this point that I realize that I could die, right here. In the lake. Chasing a corporate logoed beach ball we got for free at some long-forgotten summer festival.
I stop swimming. I tread water for a moment. The wind carries the ball swiftly across the lake. Soon, it looks as small as the dock behind me, back where I started. Where I have to go now.
I'm too tired. I'm not going to make it. I gulp a mouthful of lake water. Heart pounding harder. Breathing heavy. I yelp, squeal. I'm having a panic attack. I look up at the bright blue sky of a perfect Sunday afternoon, and I float.
I can float.
I can float here all day. I start in on a new rhythm: Arms out, kick, legs straight, arms sweep back, glide...repeat. Elementary back stroke. Keep going. I can keep going.
As I swim, I write the news story in my head: Area man, father of three, drowns in lake pursuing a free beach ball. Talk radio has a field day: "What kind of guy gives it all up for a beach ball? We'll miss him...not!"
I keep swimming. My six-year-old is shouting for me. "Daaaady! Daaaady!" I try to answer. Bad idea. He can wait.
I keep swimming.
The climax is anti-climactic. I live. I make it to the dock. The six-year-old meets me there on the dock. We walk together to the shore.
My wife is back at the picnic table. I catch her eye and smile weakly. She's shaking her head at me.
"What did you want?" I say to my six-year-old, casually, trying not to show how hard I'm breathing.
"I was just saying, 'Hi!'," he says. I give him a hug and rub his head.
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