Gasping for Air

By: Maha Liravi

Sunday, as usual: routine, familiar, fun. The sun was just rising as we arrived at Aquarina, the kind of foggy, humid morning expected in the Australian autumn. My sister, with our thin drawstring bags slumped over our shoulders, dragged our feet across the pavement. Half asleep and dreading the hour of swimming lessons ahead of us.

They went by quicker than expected: kicking, laps, the smell of chlorine and cheap locker room shampoo concentrated in the air. My hands slapped onto the rough, plasticky ledge, and I lifted myself (with only minimal struggle) out of the glistening pool. The summer sun reached out through the panes of glass to paint the tips of the water’s ripples gold. My feet pattered as I rushed over to my sister, whose swim lesson had too ended. We sprint (which we are promptly told off for by the lifeguard) to the open pool area meant for play. No lanes, no instructors shouting instructions. Just rowdy kids and an elderly water aerobics class.

After an exhausting amount of jumping, splashing, and underwater handstands, we looked up and saw Jamie. Jamie was the son of my mother’s friend Sierra, a few years younger than I but still quite tall, with pitch black hair and deep-set hazel eyes. He was always quite rowdy, and definitely not a close friend, but seeing as our mothers had started talking, we went over and said hello.

“Do you wanna…” I ask him, looking at my sister in my peripheral to see if she’s alright with him joining us. She nods ever so slightly. “Play with us?”

“Yes!” is all we hear before he whizzes past us and jumps, stomach first, into the pool.

“Alright…” I sigh as me and my sister slide ourselves back into the pool.

We play, we scream, we try to show off our best underwater tricks. Air bubbles, flips, “skateboarding” on kickboards. Eventually we tire and retreat to the deep end edge, floating about and talking about the new hobbies we’ve seen and what we do at school, what teachers we like, which ones we hate. I, distracted with explaining the plot of Peter Rabbit, do not notice Jamie has gone underwater, and in a split second I am dragged below the surface. I can’t breathe or see around all the air bubbles. I flail my arms and feet to swim upward, but Jamie puts his feet on my head to prevent me from doing so. I’m so confused, I can’t think straight; thoughts are swirling around my brain.

What is happening? Why is he doing this? How do I get up? I can’t breathe. Where’s my sister?

The pressure in my brain builds; I feel like my skull may explode. And just before I begin to cry, the weight on my head is lifted and I’m dragged out of the water.

The first thing I see is my mother. My vision is hazy, both from chlorine and the banging headache I’ve now acquired. Her features are unclear and her voice unintelligible, but I can make out the thread of panic laced in this misty fog. I lift myself up, blinking rapidly to wipe away the blur. Ahead of me I see Sierra gripping Jamie’s arms, much too hard for a child, heatedly scolding him. Her words are unclear, but from Jamie’s face it looks as if he’s about to cry.

A lifeguard makes his way to them in a matter of seconds and, loud enough for us to hear, explains that they must leave and if anything like this happens again, they will be banned from the premises.

I finally get off the floor and walk over to sit on one of the surrounding benches. I look on as Jamie and his mother pack their belongings and leave. His head is hung low, and his mother is still sneering at him. 

I can’t decipher why this all happened. I can’t even begin to imagine what thoughts had passed through his head in those moments. What I do know is that he did not deserve to feel the sharp pain of his mother’s hand on his small frame, and I wonder if, perhaps, by calmly accepting the pain while in my mother’s warm embrace and holding back the tears, I might have been able to soften the blow and keep his mother angelic in his eyes.

My name is Maha Liravi., and I am a student from Toronto, Ontario. I enjoy reading and  writing because they help me explore new ideas and reflect on my thoughts and experiences beyond the surface level. 

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