The last thing I remembered was the light coloring beautiful shades of blue. The chlorine singeing my nostrils as they struggled for air. Sinking further down, the back of my father turning from body to distorted colors of bright white and pink.
It really did move in slow motion, the milliseconds drifting in a timelessness away as you accept the inability to grab life from the water.
My father wanted to know why. Why I had drifted to the deep end. Why I had gotten out of my floating tube. But through broken coughs and gasps for breath I could only mutter that I did not know.
Four year olds aren’t suicidal, but there is a strange curiosity that allows you to do things you know you will regret. The temptation to step off a high bridge, step into rapids or traffic. Maybe that is what spurred people to create bungee jumping or white water rapids, the reclaiming of child innocence even about things we should be afraid of. That as we age, we become more aware of consequences.
The last thing I remember about almost drowning in a hotel pool in Mexico is that I didn’t seem to care.
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