I was six years old when my Dad taught me how to swim. It was a particularly hot summer, and spending it in an old country house with no cooling didn’t make the situation much better. So in response to the blistering heat and the dry July days, everyday my Dad would take my brother and I to the small nearby lake where we would spend hours in the warm sun-kissed water. It was where my Dad held me in place as I practiced kicking ferociously in the water, where he showed me how to swim a breaststroke, and where he gave me my very first pair of goggles. And when the day came that he finally let go, my six year old heart was filled with glee and happiness as I swam, and swam, and swam.

“I bet I can make it to the buoy faster than you can!” I challenged him. But before he could even reply, I had already begun to make the short trip to the end of the lake. Every so often, however, I poked my head up and looked back to make sure that he was right there behind me. Every time, he was.

I’ve been thinking about this memory a lot recently. When I was younger, the memory used to just serve as a totem pole to my childhood. Nowadays, though, it’s becoming something different. The memory serves as a reminder of my growth: who I was, who I am, and who I will be. It serves as a reminder to keep swimming, even beyond the buoy. But most of all, it serves as a reminder that regardless of the ten years that have gone by, little has changed since the day my Dad taught me how to swim. That ten years later, whether it’s at a sports or school or anything else, he is still watching my back and cheering me on, just like he had when I was six.

I am also still looking back. Maybe not quite as often as I used to, but I still always turn back to look, and look, and look in search of him. And when I do see him I can breathe a little, knowing that everything is going to be okay. Knowing that as long as he has my back, I can take on anything. His support is my shield, and with that shield I look forward, again, and beyond as I continue moving past the boundaries of the buoys.

That’s not to say, however, that everything has stayed the same. My Dad has more grey hair, for example, as any aging person does. I notice them when we talk during dinner or when we do everyday things such as eating ice cream or taking a walk. Or how sometimes I need to call his name twice to get his attention. But he also runs at least five days a week. He plays golf. He can still make really bad style choices and can talk up anyone and everyone. He’s fifty one years old, but he’s also still my Dad. That’s what matters.

So I ignore the signs. I notice his grey hair, but I turn a blind eye. I call his name twice, sometimes three times, and when he answers I continue speaking without missing a beat. I pretend that the world around me will remain the same, even though it is constantly evolving. Because to me, my Dad is nothing more than my Dad. That won’t ever change.

Yet I’m still scared. Scared that one day, he won’t be there for me anymore. Scared of the fact that there will come a time where I will have to learn how to persevere through the world without my shield, my safety net, and my hero by my side. I am scared that one day, when I am swimming and I turn around expecting him to be there, he won’t be.

I am scared that I will sink...

My Dad would tell me that I have to remember how to swim. And I do. I remember kicking my feet as it hit the water; I remember my Dad holding steady me so I wouldn’t drown. I remember turning around to see if he’s there and every time, there he is.

So yes, I’m scared. I have every right to be. But I also know that when the day comes where I have to keep swimming and my Dad can’t, he’ll still be watching as I go onward.  

Thank you, Dad, for teaching me how to swim.