FEAR No. 045 – Drown Deep

(I’m at the boogie baby) Never mean to drown
(I’m Underwater boogie baby) Can’t comprehend all the strokes
(I’m at the boogie baby) Why should I hold my breath?
(Underwater boogie baby) (he’s deep) Feelin’ that I might choke! Oh!

–Aqua Boogie, Parliament (1977)

For a long time, I couldn’t swim. There were a myriad of reasons why and they varied in legend: I couldn’t get my hair wet (I’m black. It’s a long story.); my eyes couldn’t take the chlorine; my mother never continued lessons for me as a baby since, back in those days, they threw you in and said “swim”, and it freaked her out. This is how the legends go. Some I’m told, some I’ve lived.

One college quarter, I was asked to pick an elective to flesh out my courses. It was winter, and winters in Ohio are like going to sleep for six months. By the time we reach summer, we’ve forgotten its smell. I needed something to keep me from losing my mind for six whole months of snow and ice and potential hypothermia from the long walks across campus. Something warm. Something summer-like. I studied the registration catalogue. Boxing. Wine tasting. First aid. Blech. Oooh, look! I know. SWIMMING. In winter. After my first session, my wet hair forming icicles around my face, I’d come to better understand my knack for not thinking things through. But I was swimming. I couldn’t sit with the excuses much longer. I was getting too old for the burning eyes line when they’d now had this snazzy invention called goggles. Couldn’t use the baby thrown in the pool story because… well, I could never remember it happening. The hair was permed so nothing to say there. I had nothing to fall back on. Until…

One session, the instructor – knowing my fear of the deep end – asked the class to stand at the edge of the deep and jump. Just like that. Suddenly, the baby thrown into the pool-story felt awfully real. He assured me, “I’ll be right here with this safety bar, floating. I’ll be right here if anything goes wrong.” One after the other, my classmates pinched their noses, held their breaths, and jumped in. There was only one other person just as scared as me, and it took her all of five minutes to coach herself into jumping. Me? I stood at the edge for forty minutes.

The class was half an hour.

I’m 5 feet, 10 inches on a good day (off by half an inch on a bad day, don’t ask me why). I could probably walk to the deep end and stick my hand up only to feel air. I KNOW THIS! Instead, I called the instructor crazy. My roommate laughed at me. “It’s only water,” she’d said.

Only water. Only water that I’m negotiating with, saying things like, “OK, water. Here’s the deal. If you don’t kill me, I’ll jump. But you have to agree before I jump in. OK? Don’t kill me. I’m asking nicely. Don’t drown me, water. I just can’t go out like that. S’awright? S’awright.”

My roommate stopped laughing at me long enough to come with me to the class and be my cheering section. Maybe I needed motivation. It was all in my mind, after all. What could a little positive reinforcement hurt? So she came. And I jumped. After one, solid hour of negotiating with water, I jumped.

With my mouth open.

I didn’t drown. I almost did because, I don’t know, something about opening your mouth as you JUMP INTO LARGE BODIES OF WATER could kill you. I overcame a fear. My roommate got a good laugh. Again. Everyone was pleased… except my swim instructor who informed me that, next time, I might want to keep my mouth closed and I’m all, dude. Almost died here. Don’t lecture me.

I have never jumped in deep water again since. I am still afraid. By nature, I am an overly cautious person hell-bent on control. Staring down at that bottomless pit of uncertainty showed me how little control I had over things, and I was not willing to abide with committing an act that could have gotten me killed, even with safety precautions all around me. I have been willing to die at my own hand, yes. Never at the risk of the unknown.

And therein lies my problem. Faith in the unknown.

Faith is the act of jumping into the deep, eyes open, mouth closed, lungs filled with air. If only one of those elements is missing from the equation, all is lost and you will drown. Drowning is the result of panicking, of losing your faith in the middle of the jump. In the Bible, Jesus told Peter to walk to Him in a sea of raging water. As Peter became afraid of what he could not see, he began to sink. He was restored upright with the reaffirmation of his faith. It didn’t take much. Just faith that he’d be alright, faith in himself and faith in what he was asked to do. Faith that, even though you can’t see it, you can trust me anyway.

I don’t know how much of my fear of deep water is from years of stories and excuses, or from my own inclination, or the fears of others developed into my own. I’ve jumped once. Why is jumping again so hard?

Why is faith in yourself so hard?

UPDATE: At the request of a reader, I’m submitting this story here. Let’s see if I get a necklace out of the deal (Thanks Chrissy!)

Title Credit: Off The Deep End by ~wackycracka