The Wiser Geyser Disguiser

Was that Good Samaritan unscathed? Did any bad come to him for aiding the needy? A contagious disease? Did friends desert? Was he looted? Lost reputation? Misplaced raiment? Did a prior engagement go unattended, or at least was his punctuality punctured? Surely something was traded—kindness for misfortune.

 

On 9/19/13, while in the area for “Bree-manna’s” ceremony, Torin and I took a dip. Not long after our arrival, a mother, son, and granny joined our low-budget, this-is-to-us-actually-and-sadly-a-splurgingly-luxurious-vacation-treat swimming pool. The smallest stranger was a four-year-old and either fearless or brainless. In quick time, I determined the latter. Mother sat 10 yards distant, fully-clothed, feet drooping in the water while her dreadfully-overweight, saggy-skinned elder sloshed about, frantically laboring to fence her feisty grandfish. It was not dissimilar to observing an orca’s effort to capture a seal. In fact, it was much worse. Imagine observing in a tight enclosure—one with wall-dripping humidity—an obese and gray, over-aged orangutan (hair-raisingly accurate portrayal) flopping and flabbing, bobbing and flipping to pin a penguin scooting about in waist-deep, violently-gurgling water. A sore sight.

And so we watched—out of awe and also responsibility—with bridled horseplay, my attention obligatorily diverted. I was on disaster patrol. Kneivel would have had better luck at the Grand Canyon than this young fellow did at not drowning. And then inevitability struck when the lad hopped from the hot tub, sprung down the pool steps, and soon began oscillating wildly in open water. I lunged through the tub, reached across the tub/pool separator, and snatched up the obliviot (oblivious idiot). He was scolded with punishments while I was showered with praise.

And then the misfortune.

Turning back to the tub only revealed the top of Torin’s head; the tike had tipped his top or tripped his toes, and I was drenched in terror. The flood of fear which bathed my senses froze all but my whirling mind. How much time had my rescue absorbed? Will he be breathing? How did this happen? How could this happen? What trauma would I pull from this turbulence? This can’t be fair. Do I pound his back? CPR on my own child? Those careless wretches caused this. Is this my Abrahamic trial?  Where’s my phone? I am irresponsible and unfit to parent. And more that cannot be expressed swam through my mind.

Time thawed. I jetted to him, jerked him skyward, and immediately and repeatedly smacked his back. No water was coughed up. Not much panic was expressed. And then to my apogeeic astonishment—out of the mouth of my guppy who disgusts even a simple bath-time hair-wash—it was gaspingly spoken, “I’m just blowin’ bubbles, Daddy.” Needless to say, this was unexpected. The harsh effects of this event were extinguished as quickly as a sear sopped in a barrel, yet my soul had been burned nevertheless.

No tangible damage, not worse for wear, we clasped for a lengthy period. And in that and since that time, a well of watered-down regret has risen inside. I have drowned over and over again in what-could-have-happened thoughts. How can one know the trade-off for kindness? Let me quiz that Samaritan. Was it worth it? If one sows kindness, does there exist a probability of reaping more misfortune than fortune? Are we perpetually playing slots to weigh the scale of fate? But of course, I suppose—as the Wiser has told—charity never fails. I guess I’ll keep taking my chances.