The Water After Her

When I was fourteen, I had a more than one fish tank.  One was full of South American cichlids, the other was more alkaline and had the cichlids of Lake Tanganyika and Lake Malawi.  They looked completely different with pasty, chalky coloring that seemed ever so close to salt water fish.  I remember a particular incident involving a Jewel Fish, which was one of a number of such fish in the tank.  They all got along till one day I came home and the jewel fish were iridescent, positively strutting about the tank on fire, if one can strut, aflame, while swimming, breathing through gills.  In the corner every other fish, some bigger some smaller, mostly cichlids themselves, a tough bunch, were now cowering in the back on the tank, afraid to move out into the Jewel Fish, newly claimed aquarium.  Looking closely, one could see a small cloud of baby Jewel Fish that had just hatched.  Later when the Jewel hormones wore off the Jewel Fish shook off their estrogen and testosterone and promptly proceeded to eat their young.     

Walking along the beach at Lake Malawi, in the early morning, it was cold and overcast like something one might expect in London.  Shafts of sun shown down at odd moments on the lake, but most of the cover was dense low clouds.  A hill at the far end of the beach held thirty shades of yellow brown, green and yellow.  Tracing the shoreline we came upon a fence.  All I could do was peer through. On the other side were fifty small boats of various tropical colors.  Four or five men were hauling in a line that went out and out into the lake.  I wanted to see what they were pulling in.  Perhaps there were cichlids, but my friend wanted to move on.  On the shore were large snail shells the size of softballs and I considered that lakes too can have sea shells.  

The air was cold and the water wasn’t warm.  We waded out fifty yards up to our knees and then, as fellas do, I paused for some time before committing the next foot of depth that would lift the water up over my groin.  It was cold.  A large touring boat was anchored two hundred yards out in the water.  The boys we were with wanted to swim out and dive off the roof.  I thought about what it would mean if one of them were to yell for help.  I’d have to go rescue them.  I’d have to try.  Hopefully I wouldn’t have time to talk myself this way.  But for now, under the sky of clouds, I really did not want to head out further in the water. 

My older one insisted she wanted to go out as well.  I demurred.  “Please.”  I softened.  “Please.”  I considered the distance.  “Please.”  I sent my younger one back into the shore and headed on out into the water after her older sister.  The wind was blowing in our direction and though the waves were comparatively gentle lake waves the going wasn’t easy.  Half way there I began to tire.  I knew I was O.K. but I began to toy with the idea of what would happen if I lost energy or if the distance were a mile and not a football field.  I thought about dying.  It’s probably appropriate to consider dying every now and again.

At the boat, there was no easy way up.  I didn’t want to go up just yet anyway.  I just wanted to hold on to the rope and catch my breath.  Someone found a tire around the back.  My first effort wasn’t successful but the second time I managed to pull myself up to grab a railing and hoist myself on deck.  Later, one boy jumped from the roof.  I paused.  But for less time than I did before I came out, I took the leap down in.   Heading back in was considerably easier. 

Tuesday, 06/27/17