I am a courageous and brave person but deep, murky river water makes me nervous. Not just the idea of drowning—but that specific kind of water, the kind you can’t see through, the kind that hides things underneath. It’s a fear rooted not in imagination alone, but in a real moment from my childhood—one I can still feel if I close my eyes.
I must have been around ten, the youngest among a wild gang of cousins and neighborhood kids during summer vacation at my paternal grandparent’s house. Those were the golden days—days of climbing mango and cashew trees, eating fruits, and roasting cashew nuts by tossing them into the fires we made with dry leaves. We’d play barefoot in the paddy fields, chasing crabs and tiny fish through the streams that cut through the land. Everything smelled of sun and soil and smoke, and my world felt wide and safe.
Then came that day—the one that planted a seed of fear in me.
There was a river near my grandfather’s fields, about ten feet deep. It was darker than the clear little streams I was used to, and something about it made me uneasy even before we got there. Still, I followed the group. Everyone else was buzzing with excitement—they were going to jump from a high wall into the river, swim, dive, race each other. I wanted to join them, but there was one problem: I couldn’t swim.
I was the youngest, and there were no swimming tubes or floaties back then. But one of my older cousins had an idea. He cut down a big banana tree trunk and tossed it into the water. Then, with a grin, he brought me to the edge and said, “Hold on to this, and you’ll float.” I was skeptical, but I held on tight—and to my surprise, I really did float. Just my head above the water, clinging to this soft, waterlogged tree trunk, feeling proud and brave.
I watched the others jump, splash, and play, laughing wildly. The river echoed with their joy, and for a moment, I was part of it. Then—suddenly—something grabbed my foot from under the water.
It was like a jolt of electricity through my whole body. My mind went blank with terror. I screamed, flailed—and slipped off the trunk. I started going under. Water filled my mouth and ears. I panicked. I thought I was going to die.
But my cousins acted quickly. They pulled me out and dragged me to the shore, coughing, crying, and shaking. That’s when they told me—a younger boy had grabbed my leg as a prank. He thought it would be funny. But to me, it was something else entirely.
You see, this fear didn’t come out of nowhere. Long before that day, my father had told me a story—one that haunted my young imagination. It was about a massive landslide in the mountains, years before I was born. The floodwaters had rushed down into this very river, sweeping away people—adults and children alike. Some were rescued. Others were not. My father and uncles had helped save many lives. But the river had claimed some too.
I had carried that story in my mind like a shadow. I used to picture the river after that flood—muddy, swollen, filled with panic and silence. I imagined the bodies, the fear, the grief. And somehow, I came to believe, deep inside, that the river still held onto those who were lost.
So when someone grabbed my foot from the depths, I didn’t think “prank.” I thought: “This is a dead body. This is a ghost from the river”. That story, buried in my childhood memory, rose up and took over.
That night, I was struck with a high fever. I was inconsolable. My grandparents scolded my cousins for taking me there, but the damage was already done. Something had changed in me.
Since then, I’ve been wary of deep, unclear water. I still love nature. I still wade into streams, chase fish, laugh under the sun. But if the water gets too dark, too deep, too still—I pause. My heart tightens. My breath catches. That memory comes back.
It’s strange how fear works—how it’s not always the danger itself, but the story behind it that stays with you.
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