Into the Deep - Amaya/Biromantic Bison

A memoir I had to write in 8th grade.

9/21/21 With my heart hammering and hands clinging to the metal railing, I close my eyes and jump straight into my fear.

Bold and brave have never been words that describe me. Shy and quiet, yes. Afraid to try new things? Definitely.

So, when my brother tells me to jump off the diving board, I glare at him. No way I would drown and embarrass myself in front of the entire neighborhood.

Even after this thought, curiosity overtakes me. What would it be like to go in the deep end? Would I find peace or terror? Would I drown? I want to answer the questions bumping around in my mind, but terror slows me down.

For the next few days, I continue to swim in the shallow area of the pool. Watching the other kids do flips off the board and hearing the screams from the spectators as water splashes them only increases my curiosity.

I want to dive off the board to prove myself, both to my brother and me. Feeling that surge of pride, watching Dad take a photo with his old phone, and wiping that smug grin off my brother’s face. It would all be worth the terror.

Moments later, I find myself in line to jump off the diving board. A group of boys stand in line behind me, soaking wet. Even in the blistering Texas heat, I shiver from fear. Only a few people wait in front of me.

A girl dives and disappears under the water. She reappears a few seconds later, grinning as she swims to the ladder.

A boy is next in line. A spectator shouts something, and the boy laughs as he does a front flip.

Before I know it, there’s only one person in front of me. He salutes and walks off the board. The water swallows his feet first, and then the teen gets sucked beneath the water.

Finally, it’s my turn. The long awaited and dreadful moment is here. My chance to prove myself has come. I climb up the three steps, my heart beating erratically. There is no backing out now.

I can see my dad and brother on the lounge chairs next to the pool. Dad has his phone at the ready while my brother lazily watches.

I can do this.

I can do this.

I can do this.

The four words repeat themselves over and over. It feels like an eternity as I walk toward the edge of the board, my hands on the railing. I stop at the edge.

It is time to jump.

I quickly decide to do a cannonball. I’ve seen the others do it, so I hope I can do it too. The water looms beneath me, threatening to drown me if I fail. I tighten the goggles covering my eyes and nose. I despise water in my nose, and feeling the goggles gives me a sense of comfort. The goggles will protect me.

I jump.

The board creaks, and I hear a splash as my body slams into the water. All sound fades away as I sink.

Everything is peaceful below the surface. I look up, the sky far away. Why was I so terrified? The deep end is absolutely stunning compared to the craziness of the shallows. A bubbled laugh escapes from my lips.

The jump and the beauty of the deep end had distracted me from the goggles slowly sliding off my face. Now, water rushes into my goggles.

My nose burns. I can’t see. The goggles I trust had failed me. My limbs flail around, struggling to escape this situation. The little experience of swimming practice kicks in, and I swim up.

So close to safety.

I kick harder. Harder and harder until my head breaks through the surface. Gasping for air, I weakly swim to the ladder.

The metal beneath my feet is a relief. I climb up and lie on the ground, panting. What felt like an eternity was only half a minute. My heart slows, no longer rattling in my chest. I grin, my swimsuit drying on the hot pavement. I am alive. Safe. Proud.

I hear the familiar splash as someone else jumps off the board. My mind wanders to the few seconds of amazement under the water again. Before I know it, I am back in line. This time, without my goggles.

I can do this.

What was once a motivator is now a fact. I still despise the chlorine in my nose and being blind, but now I can genuinely enjoy the diving board. Facing fears is an enormous accomplishment, no matter the size of the fear. Fears shouldn’t lead our life. We should lead our life with the fears in tow. The memory of that first jump hits me every time my feet touch that board, and with the memory comes the fact that I have faced my fear.

I jump off the diving board again, a wild grin lighting up my face.