Water Rocket

(for my dad on Father's Day 2009)

Family vacation. 6:30 p.m. I am seven or eight years old, and we are horsing around in a motel pool. You’re tossing Andy and me high into the air while Mom watches from the concrete deck, towels and clothing heaped in piles around her.

Your dark hair is disheveled, and your eyes look different without your glasses, but your mouth is smiling as you whoop, yelp and holler, adding just the right sound effects for our lift offs.

I remember one toss in particular:

After the launch into the air and splash landing, I—very sneakily—let myself sink to the bottom, expelling enough air so that I stay submerged, eager to impress you and Andy with my amphibious powers.

When I can’t hold my breath any longer, I push off hard—as I will later do off walls during swim practice and meets—and break the water’s surface with enough force that, had all gone according to plan, I would have cleared the water to at least mid-thigh.

But all does not go according to plan.

Perhaps you are worried that you’ve thrown your only daughter too high or too hard. Perhaps Andy whines a little as you unwrap his arms from your neck, his brown eel body wriggling with impatience that his turn has been interrupted.

Had my eyes not been squeezed tight against the chlorine, perhaps I would have seen your strong legs moving easily and swiftly through the heavy water, pausing just inches from my coiled body.

While peering over my aquatic launch pad, you do not react quickly enough to my sudden, thrilling explosion from the water’s depths, and the top of my head connects squarely with your chin.

Surprise.
Throbbing, white hot pain.

And here’s what I do not remember: I do not remember your being upset with me or punishing me for my asinine stunt. I only remember you, clutching your chin, fingers turning pink with diluted blood, reaching out to see if I was okay, even though I’m quite sure your injuries were more severe than mine.