I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
October 16, 2005
I grew up on the water.
We lived in a small town cradled by an immense, man-made lake and, like every other newly-divorced father in town, my dad eventually bought a dilapidated pontoon boat, with a flat, carpeted roof that was perfect for sunbathing and high diving.
Generally, the kids would go up top while my father and his friends drank beers down below. We were instructed to stay seated on the roof until Dad found a cove suitable for swimming and beached the boat. Sometimes, though, the wait seemed interminable. Tired of roasting on the rooftop, one or another of us would decide to “fall” off of the moving boat, into the deep lake water.
“Man overboard!!!” we’d scream, giggling, as my father, irritated by the adrenaline rush caused by the sight of a body hurtling past him, circled back to retrieve the dog-paddling child in the middle of the lake.
My dad didn’t seem to consider safety to be much of an issue when it came to my brother and me. One time as we waded in some tepid shore water, my brother stepped on a broken bottle. Blood began spurting from his foot. Every towel we had was called into commission, and still the blood continued to flow. Finally, Dad took us back to his house, got our stuff together, and dropped us off with our mom, who promptly took my brother to the emergency room. It took several stitches to close up the wound.
But the lake held other dangers over which my father had no control.
One summer, my brother and two friends and I were horsing around in the water when we saw a snake skimming across the surface, headed straght for us. It was a dreaded water moccasin. Just as the snake reached us, it suddenly dipped beneath the water’s surface, out of sight.
“Swee-yum fer yer LIVES!!!” my brother shouted (this was the south, y’all).
It was a cry that has burned itself into my brain forever. I had never known such fear as we screamed and splashed our way toward the boat, where our dads pulled us from the water two by two. We made Dad anchor the boat in deeper waters after that incident, far from the shores where snakes liked to swim.
In that deeper water, I had a nagging fear of being impaled by a gar. I had seen plenty of stuffed gar in restaurants and over mantles. My brother had told me the lake was full of them and I never thought to question his vast store of 12-year-old knowledge.
All I knew was that gar had long, needle-sharp noses, noses that would probably love nothing more than to pierce the soft skin of a child’s round belly. I tried to limit the amount of time I spent belly-down in the water, hoping not to attract undue attention from the lake’s enormous (but strangely unseen) gar population.
As I grew older and began filling my weekends with parties and dates and, well, parties, the lake held less appeal. So did my father’s house. I don’t visit either that often any more.
But I do have that lake to thank for a small part of my confidence today. I have spent my life unafraid to swim out deeper than deep. I have spent my life throwing myself off of boats into endless, murky water, paddling alone (belly up! belly up!), fully confident I could make it until the boat circled back to save me.
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