The sea was rough and I was four years old and wearing a red swimsuit. The beach was scorched by the early afternoon sun; the pebbles gleamed and stood out against the intense blue of the sky. Around my waist I had a plastic rubber ring with a pattern of red apples. I held it up with both hands, stamping my feet because I wanted to swim at all costs, even though the waves seemed determined to swallow everything up.
“I want to swim!” I shrieked, tears pricking my eyes.
My father, lying on his mat, pretended not to hear me.
“I want to swim!” I repeated until he was forced to look up at me impatiently.
“Well, you can’t,” he said. “The sea’s too rough.”
“That’s what I like about it,” I replied. “I like playing with the waves.”
Lying on your stomach and sunning your back, you muttered, “Go on, let her do it, go on, as long as you’re there nothing will happen.”
Inside I was smiling with satisfaction, but my face was still furious.
I ran toward the water’s edge, still holding up my rubber ring. Dad caught up with me, I put one foot into the water and it was terribly cold, but I didn’t care.
“It’s cold,” he said, “let’s get out.”
I said nothing but just kept walking until the water came halfway up my belly.
I headed toward the open sea, my toes no longer touching the bottom, and now the waves were dragging me and my rubber ring. Behind me, my father was growing impatient with my saying, “Dad, let’s go.”
I swam and played with the waves that buoyed me, high and majestic. Perhaps I was smiling. They were like big arms that lifted me up and then dropped me back down again, and for a moment I felt a mixture of fear and delight. Fear of drowning, and delight at being lifted toward the sky, just for a moment, just for a second. I felt myself being rocked.
I turned around and saw him, so impatient now that his face was almost contorted with pain.
I felt so much sorrow at that moment. I saw his wet trunks and I thought it was bad that he was feeling cold. I saw the pained expression on his face and felt so much tenderness; I chastised myself for being selfish, for thinking about my games.
“Dad, let’s go back to the shore.”
He practically ran out of the water, while I floundered impetuously, battling against the waves that seemed more and more intent on carrying me out to sea.
With my eyes narrowed slightly, I tried to get closer to him but I couldn’t. I still said nothing, because I didn’t want to see that expression on his face — I had to do it on my own.
By the time I reached the shore, he was already lying on his mat reading the paper.