February 5th, 2015 - Nadine Murphy
Summer has arrived in Cape Town. Here, at the end of the world, the light has an ethereal quality. I imagine it's a luminosity that reflects off the cold Atlantic Ocean and the distant ice caps of Antarctica. This light has no dimmer switch; even in the frigid winter months, its effervescence is felt shimmering through the ocean and creeping in stark mists that envelope the tabletops of our famous mountain.
Today, it's not about the light but the wind. Any Capetonian knows we look at the weather app to gauge the windspeed rather than the rain. The Cape Doctor, the name given to the wind as it blows off the ocean, generally does more harm than good, and is ever present here. The weather shows clear skies this morning, the three lines which indicate wind don’t start until after lunchtime. I decide to take my three babies to the beach. We strap into bathing suits, and layer rash vests, suncream, and sun hats; the former stings their eyes, and the latter are thrown to the floor. The twins waddle down the wooden boardwalk that reaches pale white sand while Charlie, a year older, runs ahead with his bucket and spade.
“Beach!” he cries. “Beach!”
We have barely reached the shade of the smooth rocks when the weather apps’ lie becomes apparent. A gust of wind sandblasts the beach onto three sets of chubby legs, a bitter storm of white sand against pink skin. My children’s screams are torn from their mouths by the wind. I hoist the youngest children onto each hip and ask Charlie to pick up towels. The four of us stagger along the boardwalk. My legs buckle under the combined weight of my twins, and Charlie trails behind, wailing, sand hitting his tiny three-year-old legs. The ocean roars an icy goodbye, mocking any who dare enter the beach before summer is in full bloom.
Back home, I eye the three of them wearily. I should put them in the shower, but I will cheat and put them in the pool. The wailing starts again as I slide inflatable floaties on their sand-slicked arms, and snot runs in rivulets down their bright red faces. I place them on the shallow steps and turn to Charlie.
“No, Mummy!” he says. “No!”
“Okay.” I sigh. “Just in the shallow end.”
Silence is restored as the cool water hits hot bodies and the sand falls to the bottom of the pool. The wind whistles around the side of the house but cannot reach us in our protected corner of the garden. A blue-painted fence hides the sea but offers a haven from the perpetual whistling. A sunbird shelters with us, its iridescent blue and green body in startling contrast to the orange and yellow Bird of Paradise flower he is stealing nectar from.
My eyelids are heavy.
They sting.
I rub them.
And shut them, just for a moment.
I am so very, very tired.
When I open them, Charlie is standing at the bottom of the pool. The very bottom. There was no sound when he stepped off the shallow ledge into the deep end. He sunk silently and without protest. He stands there now, not making a sound, not moving.
A figure in blue wax.
A snow globe.
A paperweight.
A beat.
And then I'm in the water, and he is on the floor.
I pump his chest. He coughs up water. I hold his small body to me.
It was so silent. So fast. I took my eyes off him for less than ten seconds.
I recall a statistic stating that eighty-eight percent of child drownings happen with an adult present.
Drowning is nothing like the movies. It is silent and deadly. There is no splashing or waving and yelling. It can happen in the thirty seconds you look at your phone, the brief conversation with a friend, a moment to pour a drink, the briefest of pauses for a weary mother.
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