concern. Like I am fragile. Mysterious. Dangerous.
I am pale, sweating. It’s obvious—something is wrong with me.
Weeks of progress are rapidly deteriorating.
… It’s coming on again … l have to make it stop …
Cramped bodies are closing in around me. I feel like I can’t breathe.
“I need water.” Standing, I step backward, collide into a man’s knees, and then hasten down the bleachers.
At the bottom of the stairs, I turn right. Students barricade the double doors. Throngs of sophomores linger in the lobby. There’s no way out. I reach the water fountain and lean up against the brick wall. Focus. Push it back.
I squeeze my eyes and press my palms flat against the wall. I recite the elevations of South American capitals. The populations of African countries. When neither tactic works, I recite the series of numbers my father makes me memorize: 14-36-53 … 55-65-96—
Booooom! Another horn blares. Fresh, cold air sweeps in through the open doors. The crowd thins. I watch the swimmers dive into the water and glide beneath the surface—one is far ahead of the others, only breaking the surface for air halfway across the pool.
I push my hands against the brick wall behind me. I trace my fingertips in the grooves, counting. I fight off the sensations: oxygen burning in my lungs … heat searing my throat … I wonder if I can hold my breath longer than the swimmer flip-turning at the wall of the pool and gaining another two body lengths on the swimmer in lane four.
Now I hear my mother’s voice. Remember, Sophia, so you control them—so the memories don’t control you …
I had been practicing with my father for months. After he spent the day at the embassy, he would come home and we’d walk to the swimming pool.
He instructed me how to do the simpler strokes first—Australian crawl and breaststroke—streamlining the technique to fit my narrow build, teaching me to float on my back, faceup, if I got tired and needed to rest. Then he taught me the harder strokes—butterfly and backstroke. Once I’d learned those, he taught me speed. If there’s a shark, you only have to swim faster than the person behind you, he always said with a wink.
After I could tie him in a hundred-meter sprint, he taught me to hold my breath. Count rhythmically. Release my mind of fear and simply count to 120. One steady beat after the next. No bubbles. Never bubbles.
At first, I could only stay below for thirty seconds before I would inevitably claw toward the surface, gasping for air. My father never pushed too hard, and I enjoyed the thrill of being like him. One weekend, my parents chartered a ketch to sail off the coast of Djibouti for a few days. In the late afternoon of our second day, I was reading Bonjour Tristesse in the stern when I saw my father checking the radar constantly.
He picked up a pair of binoculars and scanned the horizon. He shouted something down to my mother.
Moments later, my mother emerged from the cabin, holding a Galil sniper rifle and spitting ammo wrapping from her teeth.
“Ninety seconds,” he told her.
Hammering bullets into the Galil’s chamber, she propped it next to the helm. Then she unclipped a Beretta from a thigh holster underneath her white linen skirt.
My father moved for me. Gripping my arm, we dashed from midship to bow. “Sophia, you need to go below,” he said.
“Belowdecks?” I asked, frightened, glancing back at my mother.
“Below the surface, Sophia. Into the water. It’s warm. Hold tight to the anchor chain and hold your breath. Count, honey. Count to one hundred. That’s it. But don’t break the surface—they can’t see you, Sophia. Do you understand? No bubbles. You have to stay hidden, and that’s the only place! Now go!”
While he said this, I heard a boat cruising toward us. Its engine idled a few seconds before bumping into the fiberglass hull on the starboard side. An anchor was thrown over—it landed on the deck, meters from where we crouched, concealed under a cover of the mainsail.
My father took my wrist. “Go now, Sophia! Do not break the surface until I come for you,” he whispered, scrambling away.
Gunfire erupted. Raspy voices shouted. I wanted to return to the cabin and stay beside my parents. Instead, I crawled to the front of the boat and slid over the edge.
Huddling near the anchor at the bow, I hunched over and watched through a scupper—four armed men with bandannas covering their faces