Saturday, January 21, 2012

On the Rocky Road to Dublin 12345.

We're starting to eat a raw food diet again, yummy, but my belly still hurts.

I was four years old. A small group of adults were nearby; my Mom, Dad, Uncle, and Peter, my sister's boyfriend at the time.
I splashed into the water in my blue one-piece swim suit.
The current was strong in spots, and the rocks slippery, but the water was only 12 to 24 inches deep where I started. It became deeper (3-5 feet) farther down the river.
As I happily jumped from rock to rock pretending to be a wild horse crossing a treacherous river, I slipped and fell into the water.
I wasn't initially alarmed, thinking I could grab a hold of a nearby rock to keep myself from washing down the river, but the slime and moss on the half-submerged stones made me unable to grasp anything that may have stopped me from floating away.
By this time I was panicking. I screamed and tried to dig my feet into the mud or swim against the current, but I made no headway. 

Everyone heard me cry out, and the one that jumped into the water to get me was Peter. I found this ironic, later on in life.

No comments:

Post a Comment