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I grew up in a neighborhood dotted with pools. In the summertime, I swam nearly every day. To me, water simply meant summer. When I met my husband, I was shocked to find he hated swimming. Water had no part in his definition of summer. To him, summer meant climbing tall mountains for their breathtaking views. When I insisted that he learn to swim better, he couldn't understand my enthusiasm. Water was scary. I spent hours coaching him to relax as he swam, but it took years for him to master it.

When we had children, I worried they would follow in his footsteps. As a precaution, I immediately signed up my oldest daughter for baby swim lessons. I delighted in watching her relax in the warm water at the pool. When summer came, we wandered endlessly at the river and floated in nearby hot springs. When my other two daughters were born, I set about making water their second home, too. Evening picnics at the river, long lazy afternoons swimming at the lake — I let the graciousness of time associate itself with water, and soon all three were fish waiting to swim.

And then my son was born. Built exactly like my husband, he sank like a rock. Lessons, summers at the river, warm baths... nothing could persuade him to enjoy water. He was six before he would approach water without screaming. Eight before swimming lessons had any effect. Ten before I considered him safe enough to swim in the river without a life jacket. All this in a family that spends all summer engaged with water.

Some would say I place too much emphasis on my children's water literacy. But I can't help it. To me, water is the ultimate place to relax. Water is where I feel the deepest connection with the earth. It's the container where I can completely let go and feel safe. I want my children to know this feeling of hair floating out in all directions, water gently supporting me as I drift along with no cares. Water, so often correlated to emotions, is my place of surrender.

And so I persist with my son. This year we went on vacation to a warm, salty beach. For weeks before the trip, he reminded me that he was not going to swim in the ocean. Fish were too scary, the waves were too big; and for heavens sake, sharks live in that water. But once we got to the beach, we found a geothermally heated, tide-fed pool — one with six sea turtles basking in its warmth. The turtles were the lure. Cautiously, Aidan slipped on his flippers, donned his snorkel gear and started swimming round the pond. The extra buoyancy of the salt water and the warmth of the heated water tipped the scales. Suddenly, he wasn't cold and he was floating.

For hours he floated and gently kicked his way around the pool, completely at peace with the water. Miraculously, one of the turtles started following Aidan around. For nearly an hour, the two swam side-by-side all around the pond. When it was time to go, Aidan lifted off his mask, eyes gleaming, and said, "I've been waiting all my life for this moment. I swam with a turtle, and neither of us was afraid." And that is exactly what I have been hoping for all these years — for him to experience the truth of connection: that instant when we find ourselves cradled in the safety of the infinite, perfectly content in the moment.

Patti Pitcher, co-author of Under the Chinaberry Tree: Books and Inspirations for Mindful Parenting, enjoys writing, gardening, parenting and spreading good news at her e-zine, www.friendlyhaven.com.

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