I'm a Pisces. Which, I guess, means it’s only natural that I’ve been a water baby ever since I can remember, like a fish to water, that’s the expression isn’t it? Swimming is one of my catharses. I can swim and swim, up and down the length of a pool, till my body is exhausted and my mind is a blank slate of nothing, till I’m too tired to do anything including think. It’s one of the balms to my abrasion riddled soul. My Dad taught me how to swim. I still remember how he'd taken off my floaters that day and held me there, belly down, making me move my arms and kick my legs in a comical imitation of a stagnant freestyle. And then he’d let go, and I’d floundered, and sputtered and sunk in a thrashing mass of four-year old. But he’d been there, to pull me out before I even knew that I’d gone under and we’d tried again. And the only reason I’d kept on at it, was because I knew I wasn’t going to drown, I knew that every time I went under, he’d be there to pluck me back out. And then, eventually, he let go, and I was moving! A clumsy first lap, that had me utterly spent at the end, and when I reached the wall and grasped onto it with my tiny fingers and turned back, there he was at the start, clapping and beaming. And I coughed and sniffed and smiled my huge, gap toothed grin, then kicked off and swam all the way back to him. And when I reached him and he picked me up, out of the water and spun me about, I knew, he’d never let me drown. Ever.
He’d just taken my training wheels of my little pink bike, there I was, swathed in body armour like I was going into some kind of battle (which wouldn’t have been too far-fetched, considering I’d been at war with the ground since the day I first took my few teetering steps): elbow guards, knee guards, gloves for my hands and a bright blue helmet strapped to my head. A comic little knight atop a little pink bicycle: I would have laughed at me, if I wasn’t so concentrated on pedalling as fast as I could, and not toppling over. It was fine, I knew he was right behind me, latched on to my seat all the way, I wasn’t going to fall. And then suddenly I was moving so fast! And I looked behind to see his big grin and realised I was all on my own. He was all the way up the hill, smiling like Eid had come early, while I was whooshing down. And I remember my shriek of terror and delight, as I realised I was riding a bike, all by myself! I remember him clapping and whooping with me. And I remember, how I crashed at the bottom and how he’d run over to pick me up, and we both laughed and got me back on my bike so that I’d have another go, “You’ll be right behind me won’t you?”, I’d asked as we pushed my little pink steed up the driveway again, “Always” he’d replied.
And when I was eleven, we'd gone to Drakensberg as was tradition every year, and I'd learnt to ride a horse - not a little pony at the circus - a horse, and I've loved it ever since. And my Dad was the one who held the reigns when I got unsteady and when I was comfortable taught me to trot and canter and gallop. My Dad was the one who cupped his hands and hoisted me up and was right there to bring me back down. I was never afraid of falling off, I knew my Dad would catch me.
The first time I drove a car, was on the Sappi dirt road. It was my Dad's Eid present to me. His Merc was his pride and joy, and he let me, who had no experience with cars whatsoever, take his baby out on the road. It was his way of giving me an incentive - and it worked, because a month later I got my learners and began driving lessons. And a few weeks back, on the way to Durban one early morning I'd joked, "Why don't you let me drive?" and he'd agreed, in a beat. An hour and a half on the highway, in peak traffic, and he never batted an eyelid. All my life, I'd been placing my little person in his hands, and that day, the tables turned. I could have crashed the car, I could have met in an accident, I could have panicked and killed us both...but I didn't, though he hadn't known that I wouldn't. Just like I hadn't known for sure that he'd be there to pull me out from under the water; that he would be there to balance the bike; that he would be there when I fell off my horse...
Trust is the greatest gift a child can give and the most difficult thing for an adult to hand over.
“Our relationship is the day I taught you to swim, the day I taught you to ride a bike, the day I taught you to ride a horse, the day I got in the car and gave you the keys and let you drive us all the way to Durban in peak hour traffic.”
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