I was a long time learning how to swim. It wasn’t that the lake ever did anything to me; the only time I ever came close to drowning was in my imagination. But it was only in my teens, in the backyard pool of the DiMuccio family, that I learned that immersing myself to the crown of my skull, filling my nostrils with water, did not immediately lead me to a watery grave.
That realization mediated the fear. It didn’t do as much for the terror. After all, everybody who’s evolved half a brain knows it in their bones: the water isn’t the worst thing about the ocean. It’s this: the water filled with monsters. They slip through it silently, and swiftly, with terrible purpose.
