Like a schmuck to water

Bob Morrissey

I’ve always considered myself just an average guy with the usual peccadilloes.

For instance, when I win at bingo, instead of yelling BINGO!, I yell FIRE! GRAB YOUR TOASTERS AND RUN. I never read a poem that’s longer than a monostich or buy a book that ends on an odd-number page. When I play solitaire, I shout out every move: “Black seven under red eight!” On most surveys, on the line marked occupation, I write “shepherd.”

Does this make me a bad guy? No. Ask anyone who’s sought out my help and they’ll tell you I always go the extra kilometre. Need help lifting that TV tray? I’m your man. Need a kidney? It’s yours. In fact, take both of them … and any other organ you fancy. I’m what’s called a friend’s friend, in the same way Sinatra was called a singer’s singer. Under my high school yearbook picture it reads: “Bob’s just a guy who can’t say ‘no.’ ”

Except, that’s not quite correct. Don’t ever, EVER, invite me out swimming because I’m terrified of water. I’d rather drown than swim. At one time, I swam like a guppy, but that all changed one summer in St. Eustache where the Morrissey clan spent their summers.

I was nine years old at the time. When the weather was nice, my sister Linda and I would take a dip in the lake at the foot of our street. But so would our 15-year-cousin, Gladstone, a nice boy but an irritating tease.

The second we put our blanket down, he’d kick sand on it. Linda and I would jump up, playing right into his hands. He’d spare Linda, but he’d run after me, screaming like a maniac before tossing me into the water. But things escalated. Instead of simply throwing me into the water, he started dunking my head. Ever since, I’ve been dreading water instead of treading water.

But here’s the irony: 28 years later I bought a lakefront cottage with a sandy beach nearby. I didn’t go there often, but when I did it was always after supper, when it was just me and the black flies. I’d wade in up to my ankles and then lie on my back and soak up the day’s weakening sun. I was never in danger because half my body would be in the water, the other half on the beach.

Usually, I can hide my fear of water, but the one time I couldn’t left me humiliated beyond words. I was 36 and a month into dating Wendy. We had met in a little Victorian-type hotel bar near Fawn Lake, where I had just purchased a small cabin for $4,000. Things were progressing so nicely I decided to invite her 12-year-old nephew, Shane, up for a visit. Linda and her boyfriend joined us, so that made five. Four people who loved the water — and me.

Our first morning up there dawned sunny, hot and humid. See where this is going? Everyone, except me, can’t wait to get to the beach. And nobody knows I’m afraid of the water. While I’m struggling with a panic attack, Wendy fills our little styrofoam freezer with sandwiches, drinks and other goodies.

While all this is transpiring, I catch young Shane looking at me sideways.

“Anything wrong?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “I’m just wondering why your lips are blue and we haven’t even been in the water yet?”

I say nothing.

Anyhow, we grab our blankets and towels and follow a sandy path down to the beach. Everyone’s giddy except me — laughing, joking and giving each other friendly little pokes. Meanwhile, I have dry mouth.

No sooner do we reach the crowded little beach than I hear Shane yell: “Last one in’s a monkey’s uncle!”

And he’s looking straight at me.

I wait.

Then he yells, “What’s the matter, Uncle Bobby? Scared?”

He doesn’t know the half of it.

But what can I do? He’s known me less than a day and already I’m Uncle Bobby. The lad idolizes me.

I look out over the water. The diving board is about 20 yards from shore, and I know that’s Shane’s eventual destination. So I do a quick study. Let’s see: I could walk the first 10 yards before the water gets over my head. That means only 10 yards of actual swimming. Hmm. I could do the dead man’s float over the first five yards, and finish strong with the dog paddle.

So I yell back at Shane, “Scared, you’ve got to be kidding.” Then like an army major, preparing to attack, I shout, “We go on the count of three.” (That’s when it occurs to me that I haven’t even dipped my big toe in the water to see how cold it is.)

Anyhow, I count down and we both take off like rockets. I come up short the second my foot hits the water, and stand there watching Shane do the crawl and the breaststroke, like a pro. In fact, he’s gone way past the diving board and is now floating leisurely on his back … whistling.

I hear someone on the beach yell out, “Hey, look everyone, it’s Mark Spitz.”

Shane swims back to the board, and hand-signals me to join him. He’s now surrounded by about six other kids, all frolicking, giggling and pushing each other into the drink.

I immediately put my plan into action, and before I know it, I’ve climbed onto the diving board. My manic panic swimming has now turned Fawn Lake into Lake Ontario during a storm. The waves are so huge Shane asks me if I have a surfboard in the cottage.

I stand up and look back at the shore. I’ve done it. I raise both my arms like I’ve just won Olympic gold. I see our blanket. Linda’s munching on a sandwich. Wendy’s filing her nails. I want to join them, but not just yet. I need time to savour the moment.

So I mingle with Shane and the other kids and then lie down in the sun. An hour passes, and by now there’s only four of us left on the board. Another hour passes … then another, then another. There’s a chill in the air, and there’s hardly anyone left on the beach. Our blanket looks like a toy boat in a large pond. Is that Linda playing charades? Nope, just swatting away mosquitoes.

But now my insidious fear of water is back, big time. The job is only half done. I have to get back to my blanket. They’re waiting for me.

I doze off again and another hour passes. I wake up and now Shane’s gone. Wendy’s the only one left on the blanket, and she’s petting a small cat. I wave to her and then make my way to the edge of the diving board. But I can’t go any farther. I pretend that nothing’s wrong and lie back down. Now I’m shivering. The air is so cool I think of toasted marshmallows. I nod off again, pretending nothing’s wrong.

A few minutes later, I hear water smacking against the diving board. I look down and it’s Wendy to the rescue.

She has a wicked grin on her face. It’s maybe even a little smirk.

“You big baby,” she says. “Why didn’t you tell us you were afraid of the water? Here, give me your hand and I’ll help you down into it. They’re waiting for us back at the cabin. Shane will be asking: Where’s his Uncle Bobby?”

His new hero.