Exercise 1 - Takes Place in Water

I run toward the pier, kicking off my shoes and pulling my t-shirt over my head. I count steps; each time my foot hits the ground, mentally, I sound off the number.

Nineteen, twenty. Twenty-one, twenty-two.

For a moment, the band of the collar catches my ear and throws me off. I don't lose track of the numbers.

Twenty-nine, thirty.

When I free my head and drop the t-shirt, my feet hit the warm wood of the pier, and I pound down it.

Forty-one-----

I dive headfirst into the lake, dolphining out into the deep, holding my breath so long I fear my lungs will explode. Underwater, there's nothing. No counting, no noise . . . just the sound of my heart in my ears and the struggle to remain under. I hate to surface but my body demands it, and I emerge with an enormous gasp of air.

I listen. I can still hear them.

With a great gulp, I bounce up and disappear again below the surface. I drive myself down as far as I can and open my eyes. Nothing to see but the majestic green of the lake water, the rocks in its bed, the seaweed here and there, and the occasional flash of a small fish far away. I want to stay down here forever, walk along the stones, tie seaweed into jewelry and become a mermaid. My lungs betray me, and again, I rise to breathe.

I roll over onto my back. The sun warms the parts of me above the water, and the parts of me underwater bob pleasantly on the gentle current. I close my eyes.

I can't hear them anymore.