An uncle, maybe cousin, older man scoops you up and casually tosses you into the deep end. Water fills your nose. Eyes, ears burn down, down. Six feet deep, faint sounds.
Are they cheering? Above you. While you sink, weighed by the expectation that you learned something about swimming through fighting for your life. Instinct. Hold your breath.
You fight your way up. Recurring theme. Reach the surface. Gasp for air. Family explodes, applauding you for surviving their terror. No warning. No lessons. No way out. Only up.
This is tradition.
This is the way at five years old you all learn to swim. Find your way up. Survive. At a steep price. The anxiety never leaves. You loathe surprises. Even now, prefer the ocean. No cap. No diving. Water is refreshment and your memory.
You are still being snuck up on, scooped up, thrown into proverbial pools.
No one ever asks if you feel like swimming or if it is okay to touch you at all.
You make friends with the ghosts of terror. Pour tea with fear. To negotiate the terms of your release.