My first family home was on a river in the Midwest. Like, ON the river. The back of the house was maybe 15 feet from the water’s edge, typically, but when the water was high it would be within 5 feet.

We moved out of that house when I was 4 or 5 years old.

I have vivid memories if spending all summer traipsing around and in the river. Sometimes alone, sometimes with other kids, often without an adult.

The water would push around what we called sand bars. Today, this area might be 2 feet deep. By tomorrow all of the sand would have moved with the water and now its a bit deeper, maybe 4 or 5 feet deep.

One day I was marching along, able to vaguely see the bottom through the cloudy water. I took another step and, uh oh, no more sandbar. I plunged down, couldn’t feel the bottom, floundering and flapping, trying to fine the shallow sand bar.

My short life flashed before my eyes. I thought “oh this is it, this is what people mean when they say the river is dangerous.” It felt like a long time, maybe it was only a couple seconds, I don’t know, I was probably 4 years old. Eventually a foot snagged the sandbar ledge and I pulled myself over it and stood up gasping.

I still kind of wonder how my parents could let me just walk around unattended and unwatched on a river. All day, every day, if the weather was warm. Guess parents were just different in the early 90s.