There was a single event during our five day camping excursion that shook me to my very core.

On day 2, Ganpa and I took Tyler fishing at the lake. Actually, Ganpa took Tyler and I fishing. I can’t tell you the last time I’ve been fishing. Fifteen years, maybe more. In preparation of this trip, Sarah and I previously bought a Spiderman fishing pole for Tyler. It’s got a small plastic fish tied to the line, so there’s no worries of Tyler taking a barbed hook, covered with worm guts, to his own cheek. That being said, there was a worry of him taking a worm-gut covered, barbed hook to his cheek by my inexperienced hand.

Tyler watched Ganpa hook a worm and cast his line, but lost interest pretty quickly in his own fishing pole. He’s a little young still and doesn’t quite have the dexterity to cast or reel a line anyway. Instead, he busied himself by playing in the water, with and around some of the other kids that were there. Ganpa walked twenty feet down the shore to see if he could get any bites out there. I remained with Tyler.

Sarah stopped by a few minutes later. She was halfway through her jog and needed a small rest. We talked for a bit about her run and how things were going, while I fished and watched Tyler play in the water. I told her that Ganpa had caught a bass and that Tyler touched it. I cast my line out again and slowly reeled it in while telling Sarah about the fish.

“JOE! JOE!“

My eyes immediately flicked to Tyler, who was face down in the water, struggling to stand up. I dropped my pole and raced into the water. Not a single thought entered my head. Water soaked through my shoes and splashed up my legs. As I ran, I saw Tyler, head submerged, bring his arm up. A small wave of relief hit me when I saw him move. He put his arm back down, trying to push himself up. His hand broke the plane of the water, giving him no surface with which to push. The five seconds that passed were a parental eternity. I watched as Tyler unsuccessfully tried to lift his head out of the water. My son was effectively blinded and unable to breath. Fear gripped me harder as the resistance of the water slowed my run.

I finally reached Tyler and lifted him out of the water. He looked confused and scared, but otherwise intact. The thinking center of my brain resumed its duties. I set Tyler, feet first, back into the water and put on my happy, “nothing to worry about over here”, face.

“Did you fall down, buddy?”

Still scared, Tyler started crying. I grabbed him by the hand and walked him to shore. Sarah was on the same “don’t let Tyler know how freaked-the-f—-out you are” page and remained calm and passive.

She asked, “Are you okay, TyTy? Do you need a hug from mommy?”

“Yeah.”

As mother and son hugged each other, I mentally started kicking my ass. I looked away for one second. One second! One? Maybe five. Maybe ten. I really just wasn’t sure how long. I remembered then that I can’t swim. What if he was out further? What if he wasn’t breathing? I don’t know CPR. I get the concept, and may be able to “wing it,” but don’t know the proper technique. I forced myself to remain calm. I never want Tyler to have the same fears of water that I have (from a traumatic childhood experience of my own, no less). We comforted Tyler for just a moment, and talked to him about what happened. I knew it was my fault. Sarah knew it was my fault. All the parents on the shore – presumably watching their own kids – knew it was my fault. The truth is, I really didn’t know that I wasn’t paying attention to Tyler at the time. I was enjoying the fishing experience, and talking to Sarah. And Tyler has always just been so… good at everything. He’s big and strong, and he’s got a pretty uncanny sense of balance and awareness that amazes me daily. So, I dropped the ball. I keep telling myself that this is part of parenting. That even though something tragic could have happened, it didn’t.

Mark my words. I will know how to swim before the summer is over.

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