Fear of Water

by Keith Walker

It was a little over an hour
from the Scout Hall
to the old Y in Knoxville–
the closest heated pool in
east Tennessee winters.
My father drives his new
baby blue Mercury
with four of the older boys
in Troop 91, and me
in the caravan of fathers
and sons off to earn
their aquatic merits.

Eddie Payne, anchor
of the swim team,
Mike Tabor, captain
of the football team,
Bill Bray, all Eagles,
and Bobby Harmon
who I knew from church.
He was friendlier than most
and we’d shared a tent
until he told me to shine
my new official flashlight
on him naked in his unzipped
sleeping bag and threatened
me if I refused.

I dreaded this outing. I couldn’t swim.
The water was over my head
with no shallow end.
I said I had a cold
and didn’t bring a suit.

My father tried his best–
lifeguard, camp counselor, Navy vet
who moved in water with power
and grace—but I panicked
and flailed until I grabbed
the edge or touched the bottom.

The basement pool was tiled with arched
windowless walls and a low ceiling
echoing every splash and raucous yell.
The steam reeked of chlorine.
I stood at the end of the row
of fathers who eyed me warily.

We stopped for shakes on the way back
Dad’s treat. Soon the straws were peashooters
and wet wads of paper slapped necks
and faces sticking to the windows and doors
I‘d been warned to keep clean–
He didn’t say a word.
He was smiling.
Loud rough housing and wrestling
didn’t bring the threat to stop the car
that backseat squabbles
with my sister did.

During a break in horseplay
he said you’d probably rather be
swimming with the girls
and showing them
how the torpedoes work.
The uncertain silence erupted
into waves of laughter.

Wedged against the backdoor
I sank into myself
unsure who my father was
except that he became himself
with boys who weren’t like me.