The whirring of cicada wings charged the air with expectancy as if the day itself would rise up on the gathering sound and take off. Gulls shrieked at the far edge of the beach. Cindy ran ahead, splashing into Findley Lake. At six years old I needed a moment to feel the sand on my feet, squint at the aching brightness of sun on water, breathe in the thick curved smell of suntan lotion. Daddy waded in and turned to me. I can hear his voice inside me now, quiet and kind, and see him hold out his hand for mine. But I entered the water slowly, like my mother, shocking anew each inch of skin.

Cindy dove looking for rocks. She held out gooey strings of algae streaming from her fingers, hoping other kids would laugh. She swam on the surface as they taught in swim class. I didn't know why it was called the crawl stroke. I thought it look like thrashing, struggling to stay between sky and water.

I was different. I was an underwater swimmer. Once I was fully wet I transformed into an undersea creature. I had practiced holding my breath in the tub. I would count the seconds, lifting my head only when panic gripped me. Now in the dark lake water I was a mermaid, a dolphin, a dancer no one could see. Occasionally I felt a sudden shadow and current as a swimmer passed over me. I knew they were oblivious of me, mysteriously hidden in the deep.

I liked to swim to the far side of the beach beyond the lifeguard chairs. Here the water was colder and clotted with tangled plants. If I bobbed my head up slowly I could watch the gulls scrabble over bits of food. Everything about them, their movements, their cries, their beaks and feet, looked sharp. They fought there at the edge of the lake, waves of ice cream sticks and wrappers washing over their feet. I would watch them till my mother called me back. She always fussed at me for going beyond the boundaries.

Suddenly the lifeguards' whistles sounded. Not a long call, but frantic bursts. I followed the tide of swimmers wading ashore. Older kids were grumbling that it wasn't time for rest period. Something about the air was different. It was stretched so tightly that even the cicada sounds couldn't penetrate. Like a strange silent ballet, mothers reached out for their returning children while fathers, uncles and grandfathers turned and walked to the edge of the water. My mother held us too tightly. I felt tremors of urgency passing through her palms. I couldn't hear anything more than a murmur, as if I were still underwater.

The men stood in a line at the water's edge. They linked arms, their swim trunks and bare chests an elbow length apart. Slowly, slowly they began walking into the water. My mother was crying now. I saw that all the mothers were crying, connected in some horrible way I couldn't understand. I thought of Bible stories. I remembered picture books of strange myths. I wondered if the men would go deeper till they were gone, leaving us in some migration that hadn't been explained to children. I realized I was holding my breath.

As soon as I took in air I could hear voices break through the silence. A child missing, a little dark haired boy. The men were searching for his body underwater. I knew I was witnessing a pageant as profound as any holy story. The beach vibrated with powerful energy. Mothers pulled at this lost child with eyes of love, fathers willed him to appear with all their strength. My sister and I watched, there on our beach towel, like we had been allowed to see something forbidden on TV. We remained still.

*****

It may have been minutes or a half hour; eventually the little boy was found playing in a wooded area up the hill. His mother hugged him and slapped him as she wept loudly. Everyone seemed to be leaving at once. The crowd walked silently through the parking lot. Gulls lifted in the air over us, so many that we stopped to look up. Those sharp scrabbling creatures few off in perfect unison. Then I knew, sure as I breathed, that we are all of one spirit.

 

Laura Weldon is a conflict resolution trainer and farmer on a small homestead in Ohio. She writes a column in a national education magazine. Her work appears in Grit, Eve, Geez and other publications. Her book Free Range Learning is due out in 2009.