Ah, that old fear. Here it comes again, like a nightmare that returns when slipping back into sleep. I felt my breathing change, my heart pattering quick. Betrayal of my body, betrayal of my mind. I tried to not let it show.
So we are going to drown.
That wasn't what the chap had said. The first mate, or steward, or whoever he was. I forgot his rank when I heard the words coming out of his mouth. What he had said was so much more bland than drown, as bland as one can make such information. Small accident, taking on water. No great concern, taking every precaution. The last of his words were a droning tone to my ears. I see dark water closing over my head, swallowing my breath.
How I hate myself, hate my weakness.
I smile at my wife. At least I think I did. I tried. Am I the picture of a confident adult? "Looks like we're going to have a little adventure. Don't you worry." My tongue feels thick and clumsy.
I think about the weight of water, how it pulls at you. No. We will be fine. Everything will be okay.
Everyone begins to mill around. Dishes clatter. Voices murmur. A few people hurry out. The meal has been ruined. First class meals, always so sumptuous, can't compete with this news. "Let's go for a walk on the deck." I say it briskly. My wife gives me an uncertain look, but I take the hands of our son and daughter firmly and start to walk. I must seem confident.
Maybe this will be the last time I hold their hands. Savor the moment. They feel alive. I feel my love for them, their love for me. This is life.
***
I remember the first time I almost drowned. There was a small stream that ran through the ravine behind my parents house and during the summer of my fifth year we had a family picnic in the clearing by the waterfall. As children we called it a waterfall but it was a drop of about one foot over a rocky prominence to a large swimming hole. It was a hot sunny day and I was cavorting along the edge of that rock when I slipped and plunged into the cold water. My world lurched sideways, going suddenly from bright and hot to dark and cold. In that first second I thought I had died. Then I realized life was just above me and I flailed desperately to save myself, to no effect. I was lost.
As an adult I look back on the memory and recognize that I was under the water for probably less than a minute, but when I thought I was dying that felt like a lifetime. And I was dying. I just didn't die. I floated down through the water staring upward at the glittering, glowing, surface of sunlight, and felt as if I was being sucked into an endless dark hole. This is why dying feels like, I thought, numb with fear and despair. Then my father's arm plunged through the water, breaking the surface in bubbling shards, and pulled me back to life.
I have felt the fear ever since.
I feared, and I also feared the fear. I feared the helplessness, the feeling of utter captivity to a fate beyond my choice. As a child I was too afraid to learn how to swim, but when I reached my teen years I was determined to conquer that fear, to never be helpless again. It was hard to push past the gut clenching fear, but I did learn, though not well. I could swim in a modest pond, or propel myself across a gentle river. But there was always a tenseness in me when I swam, a waiting for disaster. I did the river once, to prove I could, and never again. I did ponds rarely, but enough to tell myself I had beaten the fear.
I wish.
For our honeymoon we went to the seaside. On the second day I was growing more comfortable with the waves. At first I had feared them, but with time I told myself I could master their tug, that I was able and in control. Until the big wave came. The sea is not a pond, or a gentle river. One moment I was standing in the surf, laughing, splashing, life a delight of fragmented prisms of light shining in droplets. Then I was slammed from behind, water filled eyes, nose, mouth, and my hands clawed in sand. I felt myself sucked out, tumbling again like a small child, pulled by a strength far greater than my own, swirling like a discarded twig.
I fought against the startlement as much as the water, and when the wrenching movement stopped I righted myself, head above the water. Here I found myself much farther from shore than I ever imagined I might be. The fear came as I realized with one glance that I was beyond what I could possibly swim. The fear again. My mouth felt dry, tongue stiff, breath coming short. My body felt tight as I lunged toward shore, more flailing than stroke. I would have screamed for help if I could, but my lungs would not open.
Again I felt the knowledge of death, felt five again. Death tasted like bitter salt water, despair like grit in my teeth, and terror cold as the ocean depths. I did not want to die. I had a wife on the shore, unaware of my looming end. I had a life and I wanted to live it, so many plans and hopes and desires. And I could do nothing. I was lost to a great power. I was nothing.
I felt myself begin to sink and in that moment the water rose again, moving forward, and slung me up the beach. I tried to collect myself before my wife came over, to act as if nothing had happened. But she saw me shaken. Saw me weak.
Drowning is the sensation of being abandoned by God. It is horror and helplessness and the absence of all that is love. The desolation of meaning and worth. I did not see it those first two times, but I came to understand.
***
The next time I found myself drowning my feet were on solid ground. My wife was screaming. I think in her screams were the words, "Do something! Do something!" I stood in our bedroom, our firstborn son in my arms, still wet from his entrance into the world. I held him and watched with horror as he gasped, twitching, turning blue, then purple. My heart felt cold and still. I saw but could not see. I knew and could not believe. God hated me.
And our son died.
He died in my arms, and I felt as the movement went to stillness, his chest ceased its striving.
I did not understand. The doctor said the baby had come too early. Something about his lungs. He said the little boy had drowned on air, unable to breathe. I flinched at the word.
I drowned in darkness in the middle of day. I could find no air, and life ran away. God had dropped us. In the days after I finally understood what I had always known, always felt. It was this: Every day I waited for God to cast me to the watery dark. I knew it was coming. I have always known. And the days when I almost drowned I knew most acutely that today might be that day. If not this day—some day soon. God would be done with me and let me go.
***
I stroke my mustache, smooth it once, twice. Adjust my hat, tighten my gloves. Today is the day. I can feel it.
This is how it must be. Women and children first. This is right and good. How much time has it been? How much time did we have together? The hours have felt strange, my thoughts compressed. I have said goodbye to them. Told them we would meet again soon. Was that a lie? It isn't a lie if it is a wishful hope, is it? But I know it won't be. I shall drown today. I feel the hand of God loosening.
There is clarity, I feel it, life in focus. How foolish to agree to the voyage. It was supposed to be a great holiday. It was my proof to myself that the sea did not rule over me. I did not fear chaos. So, here we are. I am undone, and everything is clear now.
The deck rail is cool through my soft leather gloves. Night is here, but between the stars, moon, and ship lights I can discern faint shapes on the water. The first of the lifeboats. Beyond them, small in the distance, are the lights from other ships. Light to come and rescue, to bring life. My wife and children will be there soon. They are my life.
So close, and yet so very far away.
Church felt like that. The sermons droned on, and depending on the day I might feel lost, drowning, numb. Often my eyes drifted to the tall stained glass windows. They were beautiful with the Sunday morning sun shining through. Sunlight fragments through a thousand colors, glittering, glowing. In light there is life. There is beauty. Hope, and maybe love. I developed this odd daydream that God was on the other side of the glass—like the surface of water—and we all were in the sanctuary, drowning. Sometimes I found myself almost waiting for God's great hand to smash through the glass and yank us out. He felt that close, and so far away.
After our first son died, I tried to prove to myself that God loved me. It felt like having two more healthy children was the ultimate affirmation, the refutation of that first loss. And if that wasn't enough, on uneasy nights I could recount how I had a loving wife, good health, a fine home. I had followed my father into banking, and I was successful. There were good clothes, wonderful meals, a good life. My quality coat, my hat, my gloves—even our first class passage on this steamer—were all signs of favor. Few people had so many good things.
Sighing a bit shakily, I drew in a long breath of the cool night air.
I wish.
I wish I knew it was favor.
So I had told myself. But the truth? The truth is that deep inside I am still the little boy cavorting on the edge of the water with everything waiting to disappear in the least slip. Only now I know the danger and as I play I wait for the end to come, the fall, and the drowning.
God will abandon you in the end. I could always feel it.
You will die. Helpless you will die, the water rushing in. The fear is rising, clawing up inside my chest. My hands are clenching and I force myself to let go of the deck rail. It is no good trying to stare out in the dark and see my family. They are gone.
There is so much life I wanted to have with them. The bitterness at that thought is almost enough to choke. It is all ripped away and I am cheated and I can't sort out anger from despair. I want to see our children grow, and see their children. I want to grow old with my wife. I want to wake up in the morning, to feel the warmth of her body curved against mine. That is the feeling of life, the sensation of love.
It is the opposite of drowning.
I make my way to the bar. There is a disturbance outside, men shouting, fighting, and it unsettles me, my heart racing again. I don't want to feel the fear of others, their rage of futility and despair. I want to get away from the noise, to go some place calm. I need peace.
The bar is almost empty when I arrive. I can feel the slight list of the ship, and in my mind I see the water rushing in. The dark cold fills room after room, marching its way toward us. The list is not yet enough to cause glasses to slide from tables, but people steady their drinks as if waiting for the moment to arrive. I take the stool next to the only other man at the bar. The bartender sets a drink down in front of me without even asking what I want. I don't want anything. I want to be free. Alive. Not drowning.
"It'll all be right in the end," the bartender says. He has a rim of hair around his head, his bald top glowing under the lights. "We just keep calm. No need to think the worst."
"Right, right," says the man hunched over the counter. I glance sideways at him. He sounds drunk. "Not a thing to worry about." The words slur wetly.
I finger my glass, run a thumb around the rim. I am glad to see my hand is not shaking. "You're not afraid?" I keep the tone conversational.
"I was." The drunk swings his head around to me. "But what's the point?" His hand waves in a broad sweep. "What will that do? So not anymore!" He raises his glass as if to illustrate, then downs a large swallow.
It is odd to think about what is, and what will be. The mind naturally presumes what is will continue without interruption, without violent change. Life will continue on, as it always has. A sinking ship will change that. The floor here is paneled in beautiful polished wood, the walls much the same. It is orderly, ornate. Dry. It feels impossible to imagine water rushing in, shattering, crashing, everything turned to dissolution. Yet as I turn my eyes around the room I can imagine it now. Tables, chairs, and bodies thrown about. The world upended in sudden violence, a tossing about even more violent than when the shore waves took me. There would be stillness at the bottom. Cold darkness. I see our bodies floating, pale white flesh. The fish nibble at us, feeding.
I rise suddenly, almost knock over my drink, mumble something to the men—I'm not sure what—and hurry away. The image of a fish is too real. I rub my cheek still feeling where the sharp teeth had bit. I don't want to think about what will happen to this ship shortly, but neither do I want to pretend that it will stay whole, good, safe. I don't want a lie.
The passageway looks familiar but it takes me a moment to realize I had been heading back to our cabins. An odd place to go. Maybe my subconscious thought I would feel closer to my wife and children if I returned to the rooms we had shared. They were a happy few days. The children were so excited to go on the cruise. They had a good time. I loved seeing my wife smile.
A sound near my shoulder almost makes me startle. It is a man's voice, maybe calling out, coming through the wall. Is someone hurt? I leave our rooms and fumble at the next door. Inside the small cabin a man sits in an upholstered chair at the far side of the room, hunched over. He looks up, startled. His face is ragged, eyes empty.
"Would you—could you sit with me?" His voice is pleading.
"I—of course. For a little while," I add, ashamed, but already thinking of leaving. I have the sudden feeling that it is unwise to remain down here. I should not have come. If there are enough life boats they will take the men. Then I could survive. Maybe there could be an escape coming. Still, it feels wrong to just close the door on him. I hesitate.
There is a second chair, and I take it, perching awkwardly. I ask if he is hurt.
"No, no." He looks down again. A large black coat is wrapped around him. It looks very warm, though not quite as stylish or expensive as my own. "I'm just lonely. I don't want to die alone."
"Your family went on one of the boats?"
He nods. "They are safe."
I dimly remember him now. A small pale wife. He had twins. They were a little younger than my boy. They seemed a happy family. We exchanged pleasantries a few times. I remember our kids enjoyed playing together. The thought brings pain, remembering my children laughing.
There is a sob in his voice, his shoulders trembling. A hand quickly dashes at his eyes, returns to the folds of his coat. "I didn't think I would feel so alone. It is the worst."
I nod, searching for something to say. How do I encourage someone in a place like this?
The man looks up suddenly, meeting my gaze. I almost recoil. His face is damp from the tears, his eyes are empty, lost. "We will not make it off this ship." His words are firm in their finality.
I protest that there are many more lifeboats. Arguing with him feels like arguing with my own thoughts.
"No." His head moves sharply, insistent. "There are not enough. And not enough time. We will die here. I don't want to die alone."
I start to assure him that we can go up to the deck together and see where things are at. There are many people there.
"I won't drown," he says, interrupting me. "I won't! I can't stand it."
"I can't either." The admission feels almost like a relief. "I'm terrified, and I don't know what to do." The truth makes me sick, and yet it feels so right to say it.
"Well, I know what to do." He pulls a pistol from the folds of his coat, sets it firmly beneath his chin, and pulls the trigger.
***
Within the confines of the cabin the sound is deafening, a thunderclap with smoke. I leap up so suddenly the chair topples over and I almost fall into the hall in my lunge to escape. My shoulder takes the door hard and I stagger several more steps down the hall before I catch myself. My heart is hammering, my breath making strange gulps. I blink, trying to clear the sight from my vision. I feel an absurd fear that someone will come rushing and demand to know what has happened and accuse me, blame me. I hurry back to the deck.
There is something particularly cruel about drowning, the helplessness of it. I could be braver in battle, charging into gunfire to take the enemy trench. There is almost a certain ease to that idea. A bullet to the brain, or ripping through my chest, a sudden end. It feels less helpless. Less cosmic. The enemy soldier hated you, perhaps, but not God. Drowning, on the other hand, is when the earth gives way. When the waters swallow you, you know that God has done it. There we are: Helpless, and abandoned.
On deck there are less people milling about. Those that remain seem to collect in bunches, small crowds. The deck is tilted more. I notice some men are climbing atop the rail, jumping. My stomach lurches as I watch, and I catch myself against the base of one of the smokestacks, leaning on one arm. I had been nearly running, and need to catch my breath.
I try to collect myself. The crack of the gunshot shattered me, and I feel undone. Everything so carefully put together inside is gone. Nothing holds together, my mind tumbles through an emptiness, falling. The terror rolls in waves and for a moment I think my knees will buckle.
Please. I can't hold on.
In my mind the ship is already slipping beneath the water, the cold hand crushes me. The end has come.
I feel death. Stillness comes. Emptiness. There is nothing more I can do, and the truth reaches to my bones. I open my eyes again, see the ship, the deck tilted.
Another waves comes, washing inside me. This time it is peace.
There is freedom here. I can't explain it. After the closed space of the cabin with its final shattering judgment I find my thoughts scoured clean. There is that, and then there is this. The calmness feels odd, but good.
"Ok." I'm surprised to here the word on my lips, but it feels right. I lean my head against the bolted metal panel. "Ok...ok."
This is how it will be.
The night falls into place, the stars above settling, and the deck present beneath my feet. It was, it is, and it will be. I feel a swell of thankfulness, love. For my wife, the children. We said goodbye. I touched her cheek. We had this life. I am here. I feel strangely loved, beyond reason.
I straighten. My head is clearer. There is a nervousness still fluttering in my chest, maybe a whisper of fear, but I can look away from it. I see the jumpers again, and watch now with a detached attention. Is that the way to go? For some it is despair much like a bullet, but for others a last striving for victory. Maybe if you swim long enough, rescue will come. Or, for others it is maybe a last declaration of hope. You can't swim, but if you cast yourself upon the waves a miracle might pluck you out. I see the appeal of that.
I'm walking, I'm not sure where, when I nearly collide with a man coming down stairs from the upper decks.
"Pardon!" The word stumbles from my lips even as the gentleman stops just short of impact and touches his cap.
It is the captain. He is stout, bow-legged, with a long nose and long chin and a short gray-white beard. It had been his habit to politely mingle with the first class passengers, but I had only spoken with him briefly on a few occasions. He had struck me as a solid chap. He sets his pipe back between his teeth and gives me a nod.
"You're not—what are—" I catch myself, not sure what I am trying to say.
"The bridge needs no further commands." He drawls, and blows out a cloud of cherry scented smoke. "Every message that can be sent has been. Every action that could be taken, is done. Our course is set for the rest of this journey."
He walks leisurely toward the railing and I follow.
"I do apologize for this state of affairs." He waves his pipe around at the ship. "I would have given anything to change the course of events."
"I understand." I am silent a bit, thinking about what could have been. All the years with my wife and children. Good breakfasts, long evenings, and laughter. The thoughts don't feel as sharp now. All things come to an end. "I don't blame you."
We both stare out at the light of the other steamers. It is hard to tell in the dark, but some of them seem to be circling, not coming closer.
"Why—"
"Why aren't they coming closer?" The captain purses his lips. "The braver ships will, the braver souls. The rest are afraid of the explosion if our boilers blow. So they leave us to our end."
"Blow?" I am a banker, not a sailor.
"When the sea water hits them." He leans on the rail, puffs the pipe. "They are close enough to pick up all those in the lifeboats, no fear about that."
"That's good." I lean against the rail with him. The ship is listing hard now. I wish I could feel as calm as he sounds. But it is better. It is good to talk with him.
There are so many things I don't understand. Not even myself. I don't understand peace. I don't understand love. But I know they are real, just like this sinking ship.
"The question is," the captain mused in his drawling voice, "does it matter if we can swim?"
The ship tilted suddenly.