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Learning How to Swim
A wooden foot-bridge stretched from the end of Field Street to Balcom, crossing the narrow mouth of Sandy Pond. The trees, tall and vibrant in August's heat, cast shade onto the eastern shore of the pond, the water rippling with the movements of water-bugs and fish. The afternoon air held the smells of the mills and summer.
Michael and his father stepped off of the cracked concrete of Field Street onto the footbridge, which creaked beneath the six year old's feet. His father walked a few feet behind him smoking a cigarette and looking at the water with a squint he had acquired in France on a beach called Omaha.
Michael stopped in the center of the bridge. He stood up on his toes to look over the railing at turtles and fish moving lazily through the warm water. His father crossed his arms on the wood railing, exhaling cigarette smoke through his nose.
“Hey Ba," Michael said. "When are you going to teach me how to swim?"
"Hmm?"
"Swim. When are you going to teach me?"
His father sighed. "Give me a break, kid."
"But Ba," Michael whined, "you said when I turned six you would teach me how to swim, and I'm six."
His father took another drag off of the cigarette and looked down at him. "Is that what I said?"
"Yes. So, when are you going to teach me?"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes!"
"Hmm," his father exhaled. "I don't remember."
"Ba!"
His father finished the cigarette, flicking the butt into the pond. "Now you're sure that I said that?"
"Ba, come on!" Michael bounced up and down, his tennis sneakers scuffing against the worn wood.
"You really want me to teach you how to swim?"
"Yes!" Michael howled.
"Why don't you ask your grandfather?"
"No," Michael said. "I want you to teach me."
"Okay," his father said. He turned, took Michael by the arms, and threw him into Sandy Pond.
Michael swallowed a mouthful of the warm water, slapping his arms and kicking his legs. Opening his eyes as he beat his arms Michael saw the fish and turtles scatter.
Breaking the surface of he water Michael coughed and spat. His father's laughter ricocheted off of the ripples on the pond and filled Michael's ears.
"Ba," Michael coughed, "help me."
"No, no, kid," his father chuckled, taking out another cigarette. "You wanted to learn how to swim," he said, putting the cigarette into his mouth and lighting it, "so, swim to shore."
"Ba!" Michael yelled, kicking and flailing in the water.
"Shore, kid, shore." His father inhaled, dropping his zippo back into his pocket. "It's only ten feet. You can do it."
Michael looked from his father to the shore where the tall grass was shaded by the trees.
Michael began kicking, paddling, spitting water out of his mouth. He forced his body through the water, ignoring it as it slapped against his face and splashed into his eyes.
Within moments his feet kicked down into mud and Michael found himself stumbling forward, climbing up the bank. He coughed again, tired, water pouring off of him, his clothes soaked and his tennis shoes black with stinking mud.
Michael's father stepped silently out of the trees, still smoking as the grass seemed to part for him.
He took the cigarette out of his mouth, smiling. "Good boy," he said, giving Michael one of his 'gentle' slaps on the back of the head.
Michael grinned, rubbing his stinging scalp.
"Come on," his father said, "let's go see your aunt." His father exhaled, looked down at him and smiled, adding, "See, kid, now you know how to swim."
Nicholas E. Efstathiou has been previously published in The Bloomsbury Review, Proceedings, Audience Magazine, The Park Bench, Tales of the Talisman, Barbaric Yawp, The Avalon Literary Review, Conceit Magazine, Armchair General, and Military History.
Email: Nicholas E. Efstathiou
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