It was my mother's family who taught me to swim.
We would go to the Sea, and stand on the shore, looking out over the gray-blue ocean. I remember my uncles and cousins teaching us how to wade out, how to shuffle our feet, how to judge the rush and pull of the waves.
As a child, I would stand on the edge of the waters, watching the waves race up the sand and running just in front of the advancing foam. As I got older, I ventured out farther, and they taught me to ride the waves. First to let a wave pull me off the sea floor, then how to float and swim over them - then how to dive under breakers, avoiding the churning water.
And they taught me to feel the currents, to look for discoloration, to look for waves that moved wrong. That was the riptide, and you could feel it swirling around your legs, beckoning at first, then insistent. They taught me not to fight it, but to ride it out. To swim parallel, to escape, and to call for help.
They taught me that Ithere would always be someone to help, but I would have to call out.
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