Swimming with Alligators

What I learned from distant shores

“I am a floating head…” If you got that joke, you’re one of three people on the entire planet.

I’d been eyeing that distant shore for years.

Summers, often, my family would pack up in multiple pickup trucks and bumper-pull campers, and a small army of cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents would caravan to Lake Texana. It was a traditional spot—a clean, calming campground on the lake, surrounded by trees. Texas wildlife is everywhere, from squirrels to deer, snakes to alligators. Birds of every description. Wild hogs and wild dogs. But it’s a safe place. I have fond memories.

Every time we went, we’d swim in that lake (snakes and alligators and all). We’d play in the water near the shore, right off of our campsite. And every time, from early on in my life, I’d look out across that lake and think, “I bet I could swim that.”

I never tried. All those years, the most I ever did was paddle an inner tube out and back in, usually just in time for whatever was cooking on the grill.

These, by the way, are some of my fondest memories. Family, maybe a few friends tagging along, swimming and playing and eating sandwiches and hamburgers. Marshmallows and hot dogs cooked on sticks over a fire. Sunburns and bug bites. These were very good days.

Then there was this day.

The cousins and I were older. I was getting close to graduating high school. I didn’t know it, but this trip, this particular trip, would be the last one with my family. The next time I came here it would be with two buddies, all of us in our 20s, for a weekend of rabble-rousing and shenanigans. And then, decades after that, I’d bring Kara and our dog, we’d use that site as a dry run for the camper we were going to live in for a few years.

That was more than six years ago. I haven’t been back since.

There is something about a last trip. A last get-together. A last family outing. You don’t know, at the time, that this is it, that this is the last one. But you know. Somehow. There’s a sense. The energy is different.

I knew, somehow, that if I didn’t do it now, I might never get another chance.

The cousins and I were all splashing in the water. Since we were teenagers now, hormones were high and so was the drama. There were some spats. There was some pushing. Harsh words. Nothing all that terrible, but enough that I started just doing my own thing. And while everyone else played and laughed and splashed, I floated a bit on my own.

That’s when I saw them.

It was a woman—looking back, she was probably in her early 30s. She was wearing a lifejacket. And with her, also in a lifejacket, was her young son.

I watched them wade into the water, and then they started dog-paddling out across the lake. They were making their way to the shore on the other side.

This part of Lake Texana was nowhere near as wide as the other spots we’d camped at over the years. Less than half the distance, compared to the shores I always fantasized I could swim to. So... piece of cake. Right?

On impulse, as the two of them made progress across the water, I pushed off from the muddy bottom and started swimming after them.

Unlike the two of them, I did not have a lifejacket.

I always thought of myself as a strong swimmer. I spent practically the entire summer in the water, in those days. In fact, any day I could, I would swim. Lakes, rivers, even Ron Paul’s swimming pool, sometimes. Yeah... that Ron Paul.

I’d swum in this lake for most of my life. Gone pretty far out, too, and swam right back. I knew these waters. I felt pretty confident, pretty safe.

I was maybe halfway across when it started going wrong.

There is something about swimming. It’s one of the best exercises you can do. It’s a whole body exercise, working all the various muscle groups. So, it can be exhausting.

Maybe that was it.

Or maybe it was because I’d been playing and swimming for days, and had in fact done a lot of physical activity on that day in particular. Maybe it was that I was kind of out of shape, despite being at the peak of my teen years.

Or maybe, as I look and think back on it today, it was an early telltale sign of the as-yet undetected birth defect in my heart—the defect that, decades later, would slow my pulse to nearly zero before it was discovered. That caused me to be sluggish and lethargic. That made it challenging for me to breathe, and made going up even a short flight of stairs an exhausting chore. That ultimately, thank God, led to be being diagnosed with an AV block that was causing a bradycardia. That ultimately led to getting a pacemaker at the age of 38.

I can’t believe all of that didn’t at least have something to do with it.

It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that there I was halfway across a lake filled with snakes and alligators when I suddenly became so overwhelmingly exhausted that I could barely move. Even just staying afloat was a struggle.

I remember exactly what I was thinking.

I was praying.

Well God, I guess this is how I die. Drowning out here like an idiot. Food for an alligator.

And I laughed.

Why?

No idea. I have no idea why I found that funny. But I did. And it wasn’t exactly a hearty guffaw, it was just a resigned chuckle. I’m an idiot, I overestimated my capabilities, and now I’m going to die. Figures.

It was then that I looked up and saw that the mother and her son weren’t actually that far away from me. Maybe ten or fifteen feet at most.

“Excuse me,” I said, loud but polite, because dying or not I was still a Christian-raised Texas boy. “Can you help me? I think I’m about to drown.”

I know I said the excuse me part. And I know I asked for help. But I’m kind of winging it on the wording.

I just know that both of them turned around and helped me. And I remember that as we swam, the mother said she didn’t think she could have made this swim if she hadn’t had the lifejacket.

When we got to the far shore, it took all I had to walk out of that water. I was that exhausted. And, thank God, the woman’s husband was on the other side, and they had a boat. They took me back across the water, let me drop out just far enough for it to be safe for them. I had to make that last bit of distance back to the shore, and somehow I did it.

When I got there, again exhausted, my cousins made fun of me. Laughed at my expense. And who could blame them? I’m not holding any grudges, and I didn’t bother with defending myself at the time.

I was too tired to fight back, anyway.

All I could manage was to wander back to our campsite, where I’m sure I collapsed on the bed in our camper and slept.

And later, without missing a beat, I was back at roasting hot dogs and marshmallows over the campfire, back to hiking the trails in the woods, even back to swimming and tussling with my cousins.

I’ve done a lot of things in my life that turned out to be dumb mistakes. I’ve suffered a lot of exhaustion—sometimes physical, sometimes spiritual—over some of my choices and errors in judgment. Heck, I’m in a period now where I’m in the middle of a metaphorical lake, feeling like I’m about to drown, thanks to some of my choices made a couple of years back. I overestimated my capabilities again, and now I’m drowning.

And, I’m glad to see, still laughing about it.

But the real lesson doesn’t hinge on the mistakes. It hinges on the distant shore.

God’s with me. He’s sending someone with a lifejacket to help me across. I’ll make it to the other side. I’m worried about where I am, resigned to the idea that maybe this time I’ll go under, but I’m not quite convinced of my doom.

The thing is, sometimes we overestimate our capabilities, it’s true. But that shouldn’t stop us from dreaming about what could be, or attempting it. Because another way to look at it is, technically I did make that swim. I had to have some help, had to rely on others, had to first surrender and accept that I couldn’t do it on my own. But I did make it.

Thanks to that day, I’ve carried a story with me that I can look back on again and again. That I can use to provide a framework for my life. To teach myself and, I hope, to teach others. I nearly drowned so that I could be a better version of me.

That’s what challenges are for. That’s what the near misses and the pain and the exhaustion are all about.

We should never be too afraid to try to make that swim. It’s ok to admit our limitations in the middle of things. Admitting them at the beginning would just keep us from trying.

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A NOTE AT THE END

This wasn’t the first time I’d nearly drowned. I’ve told the story before, about fishing with my Dad and my brother, on a tiny island off the Texas coast. Playing in the water at the shore’s edge. Suddenly finding myself flailing and struggling, then rescued and brought back by my Dad.

And more than a decade after nearly drowning in Lake Texana, I went out on the Gulf with some friends, and we found ourselves stranded in deep water. Far enough out that we couldn’t even see the shore. The motor just wouldn’t start. It wasn’t nearly drowning, but the danger was just as real. Boat or not, it was a close shave.

That’s life for you.

Even when you survive one close call, there are bound to be others. And the thing that will get you through is your ability to stay calm. Maybe even laugh. Oh... and God. I got through every one of those close calls as a kid because God watches over children and fools. I’ve been both.

It is possible to make a dumb, foolish mistake. It’s going to happen. But it is also possible to turn that mistake into something that purifies you. That reveals your character.

There are some events in my life where the disaster revealed flaws in my character. And those are regrettable, but not wasted. Because I may not have reacted or responded the way I think I should have, but just going through that and seeing the truth about myself made me determined to be better. To prepare myself for the next time by learning and growing from the failure.

That’s the point.

That’s why we’re here.

Happy swimming.

See ya later.