THE WATERSTILL CALLS

The water shimmered like scattered diamonds in the morning light. I was four years old, standing beside a woman I did not yet recognize as a titan of the sport: Coach Dawn Bean. To me she was simply "Coach Dawn."

She knelt by the pool, tossed a handful of pennies into the shallow end, and smiled. "You can keep whatever you find. The water will teach you how." Sunlit coins winked beneath the surface, daring me to dive.

I stepped into the pool, the water cool and unfamiliar against my skin. One breath, one step deeper. My hands swirled like nets as I scooped at the copper flashes. I held my breath and slipped beneath the surface, discovering that I loved disappearing into the quiet below. Something shifted in me that day. The water had whispered a secret I would spend years learning how to hear.

Summers drifted by at the University of California, Riverside, where my best friend Ellen and I swam until our fingers wrinkled. We were fixtures at that pool, recognized by the sound of our laughter and the splash of our dives. We raced the boys, did underwater handstands, and made up impossible routines. We were not chasing medals; we were chasing that feeling of being part of something bigger than ourselves.

High school tested everything the water had taught us. At John W. North High we took first-period swimming, the slot no one wanted. We figured it would be an easy class, just another excuse to be near the water together.

Enter Coach Robert Bonds. Built like a linebacker, voice like thunder, uncle to baseball legend Barry Bonds. He coached football, but that morning he was standing on the pool deck with a whistle, sizing us up.

He watched us swim a few lengths, then pointed toward the high dive. "Ellen, climb up there. Jump off, flap your arms, and quack like a duck."

We froze. Ellen, usually fearless, shook her head. "I... I can't."

Coach Bonds turned to me. "Jennifer, show her how it's done. High dive. Quack like a duck."

I thought of Coach Dawn's pennies and every summer morning spent diving for treasure. I climbed the ladder, heart thudding. From the top the pool looked like a mirror. I took a breath, jumped, flapped my arms, and shouted "Quack!" louder each time until the water swallowed me whole and spit me back out laughing.

Coach Bonds nodded toward Ellen. "Now you."

She hesitated, then climbed. The football team pressed against the chain-link fence, waiting to laugh. Ellen raised her chin, yelled "Quack!" and launched herself into the air. When she surfaced she was laughing too: loud, wild, free. The football players stopped smirking.

Coach Bonds faced them down. "If any of you think that was funny, you'll be up there next. In full pads. Quacking." They scattered. Ellen and I climbed the dive again, just because we could.

That goofy ritual sealed something in us. It was not about humiliation; it was about choosing courage in front of whoever happened to be watching. Coach Dawn taught me to dive for joy. Coach Bonds taught me to quack for courage. Between them, the water became more than a sport. It became a mirror that showed me who I was becoming.

Years have passed, but I can still feel the tug where the world gives way to water, still see the shimmer of sunken pennies, still hear the echo of Ellen shouting "Quack!" at the top of her lungs.

The water still calls. And I still answer.

In memory of Coach Dawn Bean and Coach Robert Bonds.
You taught us to dive for joy and quack for courage.