TUCKED MY HAIR UNDER my daisy-covered swim cap until my scalp stretched so tight my face hurt. Mom said I had to wear a rubber swim cap because girl hair clogged pool drains.

In beginner swim class, mostly I held on to the side in the shallow end, kicked and blew bubbles for a pretty lady in a red swimsuit. Already knew how to dog paddle, tread water and float. Didn’t think I needed to learn the other stuff.

After swim lessons, I played with girls in the shallow end for hours. We sat cross-legged on the pool bottom, pretending to sip tea, curling our pinkies. After a game of Marco Polo, we swam to the steps and groomed our beautiful mermaid tails. We even peed in the pool. The water never changed color.

There was a towhead boy who stayed in the pool too long. His hair turned green as boiled cabbage.

A white-nosed lifeguard sitting on a chair under an umbrella blew his whistle. He yelled for everyone to get out of the pool and sit on the edge. Scalding concrete stuck to the underside of our thighs, so we splashed ourselves with water.

The lifeguard poured a bucket full of goldfish into the pool. He blew his whistle again and told us to catch fish. Everyone jumped in at the same time. It was a goldfish frenzy. Kids screamed, splashed and bobbed, squishing goldfish in their hands. Most goldfish swam to the deep end or got sucked down the drain. The ones I caught were already floating.

Honestly, I wanted a pet goldfish. I knew Mom wouldn’t like me bringing one home in a baggie. Besides, we already had a tank full of guppies.

Goofing around in the deep end was a terrible idea. I liked pulling myself down the ladder to the bottom. It was quiet down there. My ears ached and lungs burned. I’d watch kids swim above me. When my lungs were about to explode, I pushed off the bottom and shot up the ladder, imagining myself a mermaid preparing to leap out of the ocean.

On my almost-drowning day, a fat lady in a black swim dress floated to my ladder. I didn’t see her. When I shot for the surface, her gigantic spongy rear-end held me down. I panicked, beating her ruffled bottom with my fists. When she pulled herself out of the pool, I popped up in distress, gasping, coughing and crying. Nobody cared I almost drowned. Fat lady got mad. Didn’t even say she was sorry.

The lifeguard blew his whistle and pointed at me.  “You’re not supposed to be in the deep end, kid. Go play in the kiddie pool where you belong.”

I jumped in the shallow end and sank. No one knows you’re crying when you’re under water.
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ANN COOK is a writer and award-winning graphic designer. Vignettes from her memoir, Happy Acres Trailer Park, have appeared in Memoir Journal’s anthology, Invisible Memoirs: I Speak From My Palms and Invisible Memoirs: Lionhearted. Ann enjoys writing about  everything from childhood trailer park escapades in the Central California, to boarding school adventures in the Himalayas of Pakistan. Currently she lives in the Kern River Valley with her husband, fine artist David Cook, and their two daughters.