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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Life Experience
- Published: 01/12/2015
Under Water
Born 1947, F, from Wolverhampton, United KingdomUnder Water
K.K.Bodis
Under no circumstances should the catcher catch me. I am playing in the ‘basket’. I am holding my breath and go under. The planks at the bottom help me; there are gaps between them, just enough to slide my hand in and pull myself forward. Although the river is muddy and there is not much to see, I defiantly open my eyes. I know they will be ruby red when I finish the game and my mother will reproach me, ‘Bunny eye, you look as if you had an eye infection’. I don’t care; this comes with the game. I may catch sight of the silhouette of a limb or a head and I will know that I have to turn in the other direction. I am very good at the underwater hide and seek; I practise it every summer.
The basket is a cuboid shaped wooden structure, which can be lowered and lifted by Tony. He decides when the right time has come to place it in the water. We can plead as much as we like. ‘Blimey, you got to wait, the current’s too strong yet,’ he declares enjoying his superiority. Some years the right time is early June; sometimes it’s only July, after the early summer flood. We stand around him when he grabs the handle of the lever and the heavy structure slowly immerses creaking painfully in the ‘Blonde River of Sunshine City’ as it is called in the travel brochures. The euphemism always makes me sneer. The river is muddy and not blonde; it is not a city; town at best.
He doesn’t look at us; he has to concentrate on the responsible task. Once the basket is in its right place, we leave him. Some of us jump, some of us take the stairs on either end, ignoring his holler. We have to play urgently; we have waited too long.
I belong to the youngest group. As I am so good, I have already been invited to the medium one. There are three groups just like there are three bears: little ones, middle ones and big ones. When that happens, I am so excited that I almost forget my best trick; I can hide in the corner, pulling up my legs. I take up the smallest space possible and the catcher has to work really hard to find me. Eventually, I remember and I am crouching in the corner trying to hold my breath until I gasp. I have to come to the surface, just for a minute. I slowly raise my head so the water is right below my lips. I learnt this from the older ones. I can spit out the water like them as well – quickly filling my mouth and spitting it out contemptuously. I take a deep breath and go down again hoping he didn’t see me. Then my friend’s brother, the tanned, self-assured 16-year-old, the best at spitting, touches my leg lightly and I have to be the catcher. It is allowed to climb up to the side and jump in. If the catcher touches you while jumping, you are caught. Other rules: the catcher has to wait for all the players to go under water. He can only start the chase when they have disappeared.
I can feel the excitement over the game now. My heart is pounding. The water is silky and yellowish; it is stroking my body. The river is my childhood. Childhood of sun and water; concerns and rows left behind. Summer is all mine.
Tony does whatever he can to ruin our fun. He makes stupid rules and regulations which we are happy to break. Occasionally, he appears swearing. He is angry because beer bottles, reminders of last night’s party, have been left on the deck. He angrily turns off the shower tap grumbling about waste and irresponsibility. We ignore him. After a few minutes, he withdraws to his cabin which is at the rear end of the boathouse. He takes his wine smelling breath with him and we quickly forget the frozen atmosphere he has created; at least until his next appearance.
I wonder if he can swim at all. He never gets in the water although he spends his life on the boathouse. He usually mends boats or replaces rotting planks and helps people slide their boats onto the water. When he feels like it. When he gets a tip. I am a bit intimidated by him. I think we all are. Without him, boathouse life would be idyllic. At least in the years when we have the basket.
I am on the usual trip down with towels, mats and sun creams. I inhale the hot, tarred air. We are back. My mother attached small, white and blue striped cotton pockets to the hangers for underwear. We usually undress together and as the years go by, I sadly watch her ageing figure. I will deny the perception for years to come. That time has not come yet. She is energetic and happy when we go down after the long winter which seemed to drag on endlessly.
As we enter the deck, I gasp. The basket has disappeared and all is covered with planks. Tony is standing in a corner, victoriously watching my disappointment. He is only wearing shorts and his tanned upper torso shows he has aged since last summer. He is still quite muscly but his beer belly protrudes lightly creating a grotesque contrast to his skinny legs. His skin is not as taut as before. He silently congratulates himself every time a group member arrives. Some of the older people will be disappointed too; those who only ventured in the basket for a splash.
He complains about too much debris and the hardships of lifting the basket. ‘Bloody nuisance, it was, if you ask me. Anyhow, more space for sunbathing.’ No one asks him, though. He grins and blinks as if we were in this together. Sadness sweeps across the deck. We’ll have to play outside. He has even put up a board above the stairs leading to the open river: ‘Jumpin’ in the river is forbiden at al times.’ His spelling has not improved with the years. We can’t jump from the unused bollards, which are supposed to give significance to the name ‘boathouse’.
A few years pass and the underwater game slowly dies out. We can’t teach the younger generation; they should have been trained in shallow water first. I hardly ever go and then I stop going altogether.
That’s not just because of the disappearance of the basket.
Under Water(K.K. Bodis)
Under Water
K.K.Bodis
Under no circumstances should the catcher catch me. I am playing in the ‘basket’. I am holding my breath and go under. The planks at the bottom help me; there are gaps between them, just enough to slide my hand in and pull myself forward. Although the river is muddy and there is not much to see, I defiantly open my eyes. I know they will be ruby red when I finish the game and my mother will reproach me, ‘Bunny eye, you look as if you had an eye infection’. I don’t care; this comes with the game. I may catch sight of the silhouette of a limb or a head and I will know that I have to turn in the other direction. I am very good at the underwater hide and seek; I practise it every summer.
The basket is a cuboid shaped wooden structure, which can be lowered and lifted by Tony. He decides when the right time has come to place it in the water. We can plead as much as we like. ‘Blimey, you got to wait, the current’s too strong yet,’ he declares enjoying his superiority. Some years the right time is early June; sometimes it’s only July, after the early summer flood. We stand around him when he grabs the handle of the lever and the heavy structure slowly immerses creaking painfully in the ‘Blonde River of Sunshine City’ as it is called in the travel brochures. The euphemism always makes me sneer. The river is muddy and not blonde; it is not a city; town at best.
He doesn’t look at us; he has to concentrate on the responsible task. Once the basket is in its right place, we leave him. Some of us jump, some of us take the stairs on either end, ignoring his holler. We have to play urgently; we have waited too long.
I belong to the youngest group. As I am so good, I have already been invited to the medium one. There are three groups just like there are three bears: little ones, middle ones and big ones. When that happens, I am so excited that I almost forget my best trick; I can hide in the corner, pulling up my legs. I take up the smallest space possible and the catcher has to work really hard to find me. Eventually, I remember and I am crouching in the corner trying to hold my breath until I gasp. I have to come to the surface, just for a minute. I slowly raise my head so the water is right below my lips. I learnt this from the older ones. I can spit out the water like them as well – quickly filling my mouth and spitting it out contemptuously. I take a deep breath and go down again hoping he didn’t see me. Then my friend’s brother, the tanned, self-assured 16-year-old, the best at spitting, touches my leg lightly and I have to be the catcher. It is allowed to climb up to the side and jump in. If the catcher touches you while jumping, you are caught. Other rules: the catcher has to wait for all the players to go under water. He can only start the chase when they have disappeared.
I can feel the excitement over the game now. My heart is pounding. The water is silky and yellowish; it is stroking my body. The river is my childhood. Childhood of sun and water; concerns and rows left behind. Summer is all mine.
Tony does whatever he can to ruin our fun. He makes stupid rules and regulations which we are happy to break. Occasionally, he appears swearing. He is angry because beer bottles, reminders of last night’s party, have been left on the deck. He angrily turns off the shower tap grumbling about waste and irresponsibility. We ignore him. After a few minutes, he withdraws to his cabin which is at the rear end of the boathouse. He takes his wine smelling breath with him and we quickly forget the frozen atmosphere he has created; at least until his next appearance.
I wonder if he can swim at all. He never gets in the water although he spends his life on the boathouse. He usually mends boats or replaces rotting planks and helps people slide their boats onto the water. When he feels like it. When he gets a tip. I am a bit intimidated by him. I think we all are. Without him, boathouse life would be idyllic. At least in the years when we have the basket.
I am on the usual trip down with towels, mats and sun creams. I inhale the hot, tarred air. We are back. My mother attached small, white and blue striped cotton pockets to the hangers for underwear. We usually undress together and as the years go by, I sadly watch her ageing figure. I will deny the perception for years to come. That time has not come yet. She is energetic and happy when we go down after the long winter which seemed to drag on endlessly.
As we enter the deck, I gasp. The basket has disappeared and all is covered with planks. Tony is standing in a corner, victoriously watching my disappointment. He is only wearing shorts and his tanned upper torso shows he has aged since last summer. He is still quite muscly but his beer belly protrudes lightly creating a grotesque contrast to his skinny legs. His skin is not as taut as before. He silently congratulates himself every time a group member arrives. Some of the older people will be disappointed too; those who only ventured in the basket for a splash.
He complains about too much debris and the hardships of lifting the basket. ‘Bloody nuisance, it was, if you ask me. Anyhow, more space for sunbathing.’ No one asks him, though. He grins and blinks as if we were in this together. Sadness sweeps across the deck. We’ll have to play outside. He has even put up a board above the stairs leading to the open river: ‘Jumpin’ in the river is forbiden at al times.’ His spelling has not improved with the years. We can’t jump from the unused bollards, which are supposed to give significance to the name ‘boathouse’.
A few years pass and the underwater game slowly dies out. We can’t teach the younger generation; they should have been trained in shallow water first. I hardly ever go and then I stop going altogether.
That’s not just because of the disappearance of the basket.
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