My palms were sweaty as I nervously clicked my plastic lifejacket buckles together. Before me, I watched in horror as my classmates plunged into the icy waters of the Atlantic like some kind of colorful penguins performing a summertime ritual.
“Come on Sarah. You can do it!” My instructor hollered.
His words echoed in my head and I hoped against hope that he was speaking to some other Sarah. I hesitated for a moment, then closed my eyes tight and inched my way forward toward the end of the weather-beaten float. Foot shaped puddles of water surrounded me and as the previous victims dripped dry, I could see my distorted reflection waver in liquid below.
My toes clung to the edge of the float like the talons of an osprey grasping a wiggling mackerel fresh from Joe’s Gut. I had no intention of exposing myself to that frigid body of water. Cozy Harbor? Who were they kidding? There is nothing “cozy” about 50-degree water. It’s one thing to ease yourself into it at the beach. First you get your ankles numb, then you progress to calves, knees and so forth. This meant full body submission all at once. No questions asked. Do it or else you can’t participate in Mrs. Smith’s sailing program.
My best friend Cory had already completed the test and was snuggled in the safety of her fluffy, Downy-laundered towel. Her eyes peeked over the edge and prodded me towards my fate.
“Go on.” She urged from behind her protective shield, her pruney hand waving me off.
“Don’t rush me!” I replied as I shot her an “I’m going to kill you” look over my shoulder.
By this time, a herd of overly enthusiastic parents had gathered with cameras in hand who insisted on documenting every detail of the trials and tribulations of the first day of class. They hovered nearby as anxious, bathing-suit clad children prepared to jump in.
“What have I gotten myself into?” I thought as I watched a fellow student flounder around in the salty brine, like a festive cork bobbing on the waves.
“Whose great idea was this, anyway?” I wondered as they pulled the latest human popsicle back onto the float, complete with blue hands and uncontrollable, chattering teeth.
“IIIIt’s YYYYour TTTTTurn SSSSSarah,” Mikie stuttered as he tried to keep his jaw from shaking.
This was the moment of truth, sink or swim, as they say. I took one last look at Cory and made the motion to jump in, catching myself just before I would have foolishly plunged overboard for no good reason, in my young opinion.
A self-satisfied smirk curled over my lips. I turned to see what Cory thought of that move. Just as I did, I tripped on a Clorox bottle that had been turned into a bailer. Some genius had left it on the float instead of putting it away in his skiff. My arms began to flail in a useless attempt to catch myself. Back, back, back I went as the horrified spectators moved in what seemed like slow motion to try to catch me. Their efforts were too little, too late. I was headed toward the point of no return.
Splashdown sent an electric shock of Arctic cold through my body. I surfaced, gasping for breath as salt water sputtered off my now frozen lips.
“Swim, Sarah! Swim!” My instructor yelled.
Stunned, I bobbed there motionless for a minute. My limbs felt as if they weighed 100 pounds each. They ached with the pain of unexpected submersion in frigid waters. Somehow, I managed to turn myself around, and my eyes gazed toward the goal. A gray dory lay moored just off the float and I was expected to swim out to it, touch its work-worn side and swim back.
At the time, it looked as if it were a mile or more away. In all actuality it was probably about 75 feet off the float and there was a yacht club launch right there, ready to come to my aid if I needed it. Slowly, stroke by stroke, I started to swim. My lifejacket tried valiantly to do its job, pushing itself up into my chin, which helped keep my teeth from chattering together excessively.
By this time, my body was completely numb from head to toe. When I finally grabbed the side of the dory, it was as if I’d completed a marathon. Cautiously I looked back at the float, and everyone was cheering for me, waving for me to come back. I let go of the dory, which gracefully rocked back to her natural position in the water, grateful for the respite from weary swimmers. A raucous gull landed on her bow and greeted us all with an early morning cry: Squawk!
I alternated swimming strokes on my way back. I started out with an elaborate crawl, but that was soon replaced by a more moderated breaststroke. I discovered that stroke cut down on water splashing up in my face tremendously and that pleased me to no end. “Just a few more to go,” I told myself. “You’re almost there. Don’t give up now!” resonated through my head like a symbolic Tibetan mantra.
Eventually I reached the float and was pulled up on it like a seal sunning itself on the Cat Ledges. I just lay there for a minute and got my bearings. I was cold, the coldest I think I’ve ever been in my life, but I was alive – “Hey, wait a minute! I did it! I passed the test!”
I jumped to my feet and Cory greeted me with my towel. We hugged each other and jumped around as water shed from my shoulder-length locks and sprayed all the camera hounds’ lenses with a fine, salty mist.
As I walked up the tarpapered runway, the grit scratched the bottoms of my feet but they were too numb to care. The blossoms on the wild roses that grew along the seawall seemed especially pink that morning as their buds turned to meet the golden July sun. Kids wrapped in towels ran this way and that, trying to find their parents or where they had left their dry clothes.
As for Cory and me, we confidently strolled over to the candy counter at the Alley and treated ourselves to a fistful of Bazooka bubble gum. My Uncle Earl waited on us and with a twinkle in his eye said, “Don’t forget who put the tax on your candy, girls.” In unison we replied, “The Democrats!” which immediately brought a round of laughter from the morning coffee crowd.
That day was a rite of passage for every kid who took the test. You weren’t just Joe Schmoe anymore, you had made it to the morning class. The next thing we all knew we were tying knots, hoisting turnabout sails, and skimming over the waves of the mighty Sheepscot. For me, it was a day I dreaded and a day I’ll never forget.
Sarah Sherman lives and writes on Southport Island.