Someone
Else's
Mistake

When you allow something to happen that is really stupid and no-one around you sees it, everyone thinks you're doing ok, you are left with a sour taste in your mouth. You say out-loud: "Honestly I shouldn't have let Jurien goin the lake alone with the scuba tank. It was a dumb idea. It's too dangerous". Standing on the jetty, staring at the murky water, you wish you could see bubbles rising, but you can't. You curse yourself.

They quieten you with: "He'll be ok Guy. Don't spoil his fun". You turn to face them, hoping vainly for a second that they are experts on scuba diving, that you can take some of their nonchalance to ease your worry. But you see two mothers laughing in the shade of a leafy gum tree, fiddling with bottles of pop and amusing the other kids who are too young to be beneath the surface of Lake Leschnaultia wearing your second hand scuba gear.

You look back to the water thinking you see bubbles. Wanting most desperately to end the trial you've allowed yourself to be drawn into, you dive into the water and swim to the disturbance. By the time you arrive, the boy, Jurien, has gone, enveloped in a muddy cloud: an impregnable brown blur. You break the surface, wiping brackish water from your face, and glance to the shore where one of the women waves. You wish you'd said what you felt when you had your first doubts about letting her 13 year old son use up the last bit of air in the tank. But regrets are no use when you think the boy's life is at stake.

You duck-dive to the bottom. It's ten feet deep, visibility is less than four; no sign of the boy. The water is cold but you've been in and out for an hour or so, its chill is refreshing against the dull humidity of the late afternoon. Breaking the water again you scream " Damn !", pounding the lake with your fist. Suddenly there are bubbles all around you. Something touches your foot. Quickly you double-up to descend. He's there, still alive, playing pranks while you're worried stupid because you've allowed a inexperienced boy use your scuba tank in a murky, cold, freshwater lake, where the water depth drops suddenly in places from 10 to 50 feet and old rusted car bodies lie to ensnare, entwined with silted-over rope and weed. A lake where three people, overconfident because they were "just a few yards from the beach", drowned last year alone.

You surface for breath then down again. The water is deeper here, your ears ached from the depth, you're in too much of a hurry to equalize properly. Powering swiftly down into darkness, you blunder into the leaves of a submerged tree. It's much too deep here for the boy to be safe. As you push away from the branches, sharp twigs scrape your legs. But there, at the periphery of your sight, in the tree, entangled, is a shape. Too much pain to stay to look, you quickly surface for air.

You breathe in deep and cast paranoid eyes over the lake in a half circle left and right. The water is calm, unrippled. The boy is gone, taken in the trees, the regulator fallen from his mouth. He has gagged and panicked. He has drowned rather than stay cool: release his weight belt and fin straight up. But how was he to know. Even if he had done that he may still have had an embolism on the rapid ascent. It is 20 feet deep here, deep enough for tiny air bubbles to sneak into his blood-stream should he hold his breath.

You duck-dive, turning-turtle, putting your head where your legs had been. Straight down you swim, pulling at the water with your arms. No time to look around, you have a body to recover. Apprehension saps your air, you're exhausted by the time you are in the branches. And there, the shape, entwined in the branches, still beyond reach, but what's that? something silver? Your chest is dying for air, you must abort the search for a second. Did you detect limbs on the mass down below? You rasp at warm air, it burns your throat. Sucking in breath you buckle to submerge again. In the branches, in the leaves, ensnared in the foliage: the silver thing. It is a disc-shaped object attached to a black hose. The hose is caught in the tree. It is attached to a blue cylinder. The cylinder is strapped to the back of a young boy.

You are choking when you reach the water surface. You suck in your grief. You look to the women on the beach, they are nonchalant. You are alone in your guilt. You alone are responsible for the boy's death. You establish your breathing, there's still hope, he's only been there a few minutes, he can be resuscitated. He must be retrieved on this dive. Your head is light: too much exertion, not enough breathing. You swim a yard so you are directly above the tree. You dive once more. It is familiar now, the layout of the branches, the position of the frail, pale body hanging so motionless in the still water; the fine silt that has wavered off the branches shrouding him in a deathly veil. The brown mist like smoke from a pyre. You snatch at the boy, grappling with the straps to release him. They seem strangely unfamiliar considering how many times you've taken them off your own back. The tank falls away easily, dropping silently beyond sight to the mud. The boy feels all floppy, fat and misshapen. He is immobile and surprisingly heavy for a young boy immersed in water. When he comes to the surface you glace his face. It is distorted, horribly wan. At the closest the shore is 60 yards off, you swim as fast as you can to it, trailing the body behind, cupping its jaw in your left hand, clawing vigorously with your right. You have no time to think how 'it' was a 'he' only a few minutes before.

As soon as your feet touch sand you clamber up the gentle slope, now hauling the body under the arms out of the water. You are shuddering, your belly like it is made of wood. The women are a hundred yards away. You do not look to see them, you can save the boy if you are quick. To your left you glance a familiar figure sprinting towards you. Someone to fetch an ambulance. You haul the spent body about, trying to get the water from its lungs. A gush of bile-like liquid floods from its mouth. You are overcome by the nauseating stench and you become aware of the confusion your hurried actions have blocked. Something is wrong with the drowned boy.

You pause for a second to draw a strong breath into its lungs. You look closely at the face for the first time, realizing the stench you had ignored. The stench of old death... Suddenly horror overcomes you. You are taken by the vile corpse in your arms: it has been dead for weeks! You retch up the contents of your stomach, your arms shrink at the feel of clammy flesh. Useless eyes, pocked by the teeth of fish, stare blankly beyond you, and you vomit again, feeling like your are throwing-up your intestines. You shrink away from the stinking white body, cowering from the horror you had held and put your face close to.

The runner is close, he lands in the sand besides you, clamoring questions, you look to him. It is Jurien.

You are spluttering mad, incoherent words. You grab the young boy and haul him close, screwing up your face on his shoulders. You grip him so tight he makes painful noises, but he is transfixed by the body. He kneels, open-mouthed, as you cough-out your relief and guilt then move to face him, then to face the body.

" I though that was you, Jurien ". His eyes reflect your anguish in a form of disbelief, not comprehending what he sees.

" I thought that was you ". You wipe water from your face, try to find thoughts that are constructive.

" Get your mother to call an ambulance... don't let her see this, ok ". Jurien nods gravely, scampers off towards the women who are standing now, peering into the distance. You look around you, spot a dust-bin with a number of spare bags tucked underneath. You fetch the bags and lay them over the yellow-coloured boy, tucking them under his arms so they don't move from there.

You sit on a log a few meters from the body and stare at the black bags, glancing up to watch the cautious approach of the women, and feel the slow descent of your heart rate. You cough a snort of disbelief, you have never been so glad to see an unfamiliar boy dead. You are glad someone else's mistake had been realized and not your own.

Guy Lane.