Nothing Happened

My mother is rowing and my father is giving her last-minute instructions. I’m sitting in the hull of the rowboat with my little brother and sister, in our nest of beach towels, glaring up at her. I want my father to see my face. I want him to know that I too am disgusted by her fear. From where I sit, I can see her weakness in the soft white underbelly of her upper arms, spread-eagle above me as she holds the oars. I can see the slope of her breasts, that hang and sway without her consent, betraying her struggle with the water. I can see the hair between her legs that grows beyond the borders of her bathing suit, and I am angry at her for this female display of weakness. Because of her we all must suffer.

Every summer we get into this boat, and every summer it’s my mother’s job to row us all out to the base of these cliffs, and every summer we all watch as my father climbs the face of the cliffs and dives into the water.  Every summer I am convinced that this is the year he will splatter his body on the rocks below, and every summer he climbs back into the boat, without saying a word- as if nothing happened. But my mother can’t hide her fear like I can. The whole point is not to flinch. That’s the only way to win this game.

When we arrive at the base of the cliffs my mother looks into the water and proclaims it too shallow, “It’s not deep enough! See?” she says, pushing an oar down into the cold black water and hitting the rocky bottom. “See? Look! Look how shallow it is!”  This is what she always says, her panic rising with her voice. This is the moment we came for. This is the moment that decides everything. 

This is the moment that decides who is brave and who is afraid, who is weak and who is strong. This is the moment that decides who speaks last and leaves the room first. He ignores her, adjusting his red, white, and blue Speedo bathing suit as he looks up at the cliffs. I sneak an indifferent glance down into the water, pretending not to care, but my eyes can’t penetrate the surface, and I am denied entrance by my own reflection. We are sandwiched between these low white clouds and this shinny metallic water with its gravity so strong it keeps us from falling back into the sky. I secretly pray he won’t dive- that he will listen to my mother. Why can’t we just go back now? Why can’t we go back to our cabin at the edge of Eagle Lake, in the Adirondacks, with its potbellied stove and thick carpet of pine needles all around?

Now he’s standing on the gunwale of the boat, rocking us gently side to side, playing with his balance, using us to unweight himself. That’s when my mother starts to plead, whining in her little-girl voice, until he dives in, ignoring her distress. Once he’s gone, she is pissed, muttering a rosary of curse words, as she holds our position in the water, using her opposing oar-strokes, just like he taught her, waiting for him to return.

I watch for his head to break the surface at the base of the cliffs. I know he won’t come up for air until he gets to the base. I hold my breath too, just to make sure he has enough air.

I watch as he ascends the face, making a graceful marriage with the rock. Rock that never loses, and never gives itself away. We squint into the emerging sun as he climbs higher. I worry about him slipping. I always worry about him slipping. He could slip. Anyone could. But he’s made it clear- it’s better to fall than to be afraid like our mother.

He gets to the top and disappears. I know him. I bet he’s walking around the summit- taking in the view. Might as well take in the view once you’ve climbed all the way to the top. I bet he takes a leak on one of the scrub trees. I know there are pine needles, and sandy dirt, swept into the cracks and depressions of the rock. I bet there are a few beer cans- rusted and crushed, marking the best sitting places. 

He could have hiked up the backside instead of climbing up the face. There’s a great little beach with an easy hike up to the summit, but he won’t go around. I could be sitting on the beach right now, absent-mindedly pulling sand into my hands and letting it slip through my fingers. I could be playing with my little brother and sister. We could be scrambling around on the boulders by the water right now, our legs and bare feet alive with the sensation of fresh scrapes and bruises. My mother could be lying on the beach, reading a book like a lady in the movies, and my father could just disappear for a while. When he comes back, he could be all wet, and my mother could look up at him, amused for a moment as he leans over to kiss her, and then she could go back to her book.

He’s back in sight. I can just make out the red, white, and blue stripes of his bathing suit. He walks toward the edge, facing us. I know he can see us, a speck in the water below him, and I am embarrassed that we look so small. I hate being lumped together with my mother and little brother and sister. I hate that he sees me with them. “I am like you!” I want to shout, “Take me with you, I want to climb!”

He starts walking toward his diving spot. A nice outcropping of rock- the perfect platform for a dive. I trace his route with my eyes. I watch the water gently slapping up against the base of the cliff. I life my eyes just in time to see him dive, and it is a beautiful dive, a perfect dive into the blackness, barely disturbing the surface at all. The water still slaps gently at the base of the rocks, except just once, it slaps a little harder.

July 1971. My father, standing at the edge of the cliff, getting ready to dive.