He has to.
It seems reasonable that he should. But still and all, I don't just
fancy it. Once when a badly scared man grabbed me by the arms in
deep water I had the fear of drowning take hold of my soul, and it
isn't a nice feeling at all. Somehow when I hear folks praising up
this method of teaching a child to swim, I seem to hear the little
fellow's screams that he doesn't want to be thrown into the water.
I can see him clinging to his father for protection, and finding that
heart hard and unpitying. I can see his fingernails whiten with his
clutch on anything that gives a hand-hold. His father strips off
his grip, at first with boisterous laughter, and then with hot anger
at the little fool. He calls him a cry-baby, and slaps his mouth for
him, to stop his noise. The little body sprawls in the air and
strikes with a loud splash, and the child's gargling cry is strangled
by the water whitened by his mad clawings. I can see his head come
up, his eyes bulging, and his face distorted with the awful fear that
is ours by the inheritance of ages. He will sink and come up again,
not three times, but a hundred times. Eventually he will win safe
to shore, panting and trembling, his little heart knocking against
his ribs, it is true, but lord of the water from that time forth.
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