Swim

First, a cruel push into the unknown, his small lizard brain shutting down breath as he plunged below the surface, surviving or perhaps remembering, thrust once from, and then into, a liquid world. Wide-eyed and sputtering he emerged, and this is when knowing began.

Then it was explored, this stuff that makes wet, a way to wash, comfortable at home. A game too, dunking mouth and nose, kicking one foot and then two. Surprise! There are more kinds of water, big ones and blue ones, puddle ones, salty ones. Floating seats and arm floats, the battling of noodles and balls. Holding and clinging first to momma, then to the side wall, like a quivering mouse, like a sucker fish. Kicking revisited, with purpose now: get mommy wet, faster like running, behind you like Superman. Blowing bubbles, a master skill all its own, practiced above and below, blowing like the wind, out like a birthday candle, ho hum, hum, hum. Laying back, relaxing, head on mommy's shoulder like a pillow now, looking up at beams and clouds. Then work, two tasks at once, blowing while kicking, walking not falling, motorboat faster and faster. Dunking by accident, then on purpose, jumping. Circles with arms. Overconfident, scolded, no running. Paddle like a dog, like a beaver. Diving.

Small and granular tasks—unique but meaningfully related, like grains of sand on a beach—a boy learns to swim.