Tsunami Week - First Installment

EVENT

CHAPTER ONE: Connor and the Tsunami

Before I plunge into errant discourse, I had better establish my credentials.
Being from Michigan's lower peninsula, bounded on three sides by the Greatest Lakes in the World, I rightfully consider myself an authority on the subject of that which is watery.
By breaking down relevant experiences, I've come up with the following score.

WATER: 3
CONNOR: 1

Accounts of these experiences follow.

Story #1

When I was seven I lived on Gold Ave., a tight little area with lots of kids playing in the street while elderly neighbors sat on their porches and watched us. Jeff Lamere was both my friend and main adversary. His parents got an aboveground pool installed, I want to say the summer of '85, and we all went over to crown her.

I still recall, almost tangibly, the trembling excitment that pool represented to me. My own family had recently acquired a set of World Books, and I'd spent hours poring over their diagrams of Real Ships and setting up boxes in the basement as if I was a captain sailing to Cambodia or Tahiti. The introduction of water to the equation possessed a special thrill; it was one step closer to the truth, because I knew that boats and captains and Tahiti and similar things were Real. If water + a boat = sailing, then I was halfway there.

Reality. I'd never been in water much deeper than a bathtub. Of course I couldn't swim. This was Four Feet Deep, putting it soundly above my head.

On that bright afternoon, after sandwiches and pop, I boldly stepped out onto the Lamere's smooth deck into the shining sun and calmly, as if I planned to walk across the surface, stepped into the water and sank like a rock.

About five seconds later, flailing under water with only my hands waving frantically in the air, my dad plucked me out, snotty, sputtering, and terrified.

Story #2

About four years later.

I had taken several years of swimming lessons at Tucker Pool in downtown Flushing. This was definitely a venue for the Big Kids; the deep end went down twelve feet, as opposed to the traditional eight-and-a-half. My scores in the class weren't spectacular, but were average or better. While I'd set aside my aspirations of captaining my own vessel, I did fancy that I might become a lifeguard.

I kept this image in my mind as I swam lengths. I excelled at the backstroke and sidestroke, and could adequately crawl and tread water. I was 4% body fat, though, and couldn't float to save my soul. Things went well, and I finally graduated from Advanced Intermediate to attend the Swimmers sessions; one of the two most advanced classes that might open the door for eventual lifeguarding.

My plans were derailed so easily... one day, late summer, after swimming lessons, my parents took my brother, sister, and I to 23 to rent movies. As I was likely headed toward the Sci-Fi section, I passed the box for a B-rate horror flick: Endless Descent. It featured a man in scuba gear, reaching up through a gray green haze to the surface, almost in prayer, supplication, apology. A thick, greasy tentacle was wrapped about his ankle and drew him down with more strength than he possessed in his whole body.

After seeing that box, I quickly lost interest in swimming. I couldn't swim across the deep end of Tucker, with the water twice as deep at my head, without imagining some thing wrapping me up, drawing me in, and forcing me down. I never took the Swimmers course.

Story #3

About eight years later.

I'd finished two quarters at the University of Chicago without flunking out. Among my victories were the swimming test: incoming students must swim eight widths of a miniscule pool via backstroke, crawl, or doggie paddle (ie. any means available) or be consigned to a quarter of swimming classes.

That was an incidental victory; it's not my story.

At the end of Winter Quarter, fronts collided, temperatures rose, the snow melted, and storms walled up the sky. I'd learned that Chicago wasn't quite as big or threatening as I'd originally thought, so I'd gotten in the habit of taking long walks at night. On the night before I'd leave for Michigan, I walked most of the circumfrance of Hyde Park, ultimately arriving at the Point, a promontory of limestone break walls that masses into Lake Michigan. The storm raged as the sky turned purple and the sun threatened to rise. There was a roar, a hiss every seven seconds, and a curtain of black, icy water reared up three feet above the break wall and crashed forward. In inch of ice tapered away as it receded toward the city.

I continued further north, to 51st street, where a metal hand railing is mounted atop the blocks. Here the waves swirled up before they collided. The sound was thundrous. I saw lights wink out downtown and the skyline far away like a bizarre, symmetrical mountain range.

I could have walked up. I hold have held onto the railing. Let the waves, or hell, let a wave crash over me. Feel the frozen, icy thrill for seconds before returning to the warmth and safety of my room and bed.

I never got closer than ten feet.

I stood there, long minutes, longing, then started home.

Story #4

Five years later.

I'd spent a summer unemployed, writing my novel and living in my friends' basement. As things started to wrap up, Sam invited me to spend a week with him in Marquette, Michigan, and I agreed.

On the second day, we headed out to Little Presque Isle with some friends. Little Presque is situated just northwest of Marquette... alpine forest fades to a gently sloping sandy beach and the island sits about a thousand feet offshore. During summer months, you wade in across slippery and sometimes sharp stones. The water is never more than three feet deep. The water was numbingly cold.

Once we'd arrived on the island, we walked counterclockwise along the shore. The further we went, the higher we climbed, and soon the sand gave way to rock and the aspens fell back. Near the northern tip of the island, descending tiers of stone stopped at a brink. There was a thirty foot drop to thirty feet deep water. It was crystal clear and I could see patches of sand among the black spurs of granite at the bottom.

Since I'd arrived in Marquette, Sam had been urging me to rock jump, even driving me to the blackrocks, a modest ten-foot drop into calm waters. I'd resisted. "I don't like being cold," I said, which was half of the truth.

On this tip of Little Presque, we found a cluster of boys jumping, one after the other. I felt a little daring, so I said to Sam, "Want to jump here?"

He didn't.

But I did.

I stipped to my bathing suit and stood for long moments on the sun-baked rock feeling even the summer breeze stir goosebumps out of my skin. I looked down at the blue-green-black water, pitching and yawning three-stories, five mes below me.

And I jumped.

The second time I jumped, I actually touched the bottom. Stones and a bit of sand.