The new house where my family lived before we moved, there was a shallow/deep in-ground pool complete with filters and a diving board. What I mean by this, is that the front-most part was shallow, three feet deep, but at a certain part, the shallow part ends with a sharp cut and the ground steeps downward and leaves a flat space at nine feet deep. You think that the deep end isn't deep at all, but no, that's where you're wrong. That place almost ended my life.

  That's where we lived up to the summer of 2013. Up to that point, I encountered numerous adventures that entertwined with that pool. Looking back, I remember the time my father forced us to dive headfirst on the diving board. You think doing that off a foot high board would be no problem, but that's another point when you're incorrect. You could see how deep the water is into the crystal clear waters and see your reflection rippling across tiny minute waves. I wasn't afraid. I was petrified. In the end, I dived headfirst, tipping over the edge, and sliced through my reflection.

  The way how my father developed an allergy to bees happened at the pool. There was a hive near our swimming waters filled with bees. Striving to get rid of it, Dad got stung on his foot on the process. Eventually, he got spray and killed the bees, but his foot swelled quickly, up his heel and ankle, although he never scratched it. The agony on his face would have made me laugh if it wasn't my father in pain.

  Dead animals was constant in that pool. Mice and squirrels met their doom after they got past our locked fences and we found their dead carcasses drifting in the water. Birds sometimes were found clogging up the filters.

  Once, Dad was so frustrated about the raccoons that lived in our backyard who fed on our garden that we worked so hard to plant. He motioned my two older brothers to come and threw one in the water. The raccoon, however, miraculously survived, and swam to safety, but met my father's stick and the light in its eyes left.

  But the interesting history I had with my pool had a grave and devastating time that nearly killed me as a tiny toddler.

  You probably guessed it, looking at the title.

  And yes, I will get to the part when I nearly drowned.

  So, I shall present you the best as I can about that time I had fatal consequences.

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  Back at the time when the lights on the poles were still working, I was with all my three brothers, swimming in the pool. I don't recall enough to tell you that my parents were hosting a party, but adults were talking to one another and there was food. I was bobbing about in the shallow end, my neck just touching the surface of the water, for I was little over three feet at that era. There was a thick rope that seperated the shallow end and the steep downslide, and looking at it, I remembered being told to never cross, for I will die trying. Then, a foolish thought came to me - just cross it and make it back. Surely that can't happen to me. I was tempted.

  I swam to the rope and clutched the rough texture of the rope. Quickly, I ducked my head under and brought it to the other side. I brought my body along and still was clutching the rope.

  The steep slide was slipperier than you would guess.

  Come on, my evil mind was telling me, let go of the rope and go a little further. Then you can tell them that you really did survive.

  I hesitantly let go of the rope, then just made it a bit further.

  A little bit more...

  A tiny step underwater.

  Just a bit more...

  Slip.

  My head and body was completely underwater, and arms flailing, I discovered that I can not reach to the surface. Explosions of bubbles erupted. I need air... NOW!

 I opened my underwater, legs spinning like the tail of a motorboat and arms reaching out to the sky in a jagged, twisted motion. My desperate need of oxygen forced me to try to take a breath underwater. I nearly choked on the water that filled my nose and mouth. I was dying... dying...

  I don't know how long I was like this. But I ran out of energy fast, and my legs and arms were tired. I knew I was not going to make it.

  Another splash exploded next to me, swooped in, and took me back to the surface. I gasped the air, grateful of whoever rescued me. The person was my father! He took me on the gound and his clothes were drippling wet. He hadn't bothered to take his shirt off, because who knew if it was too late if he did so?

  On dry ground, I breathed heavily, glad I hadn't reached the afterlife. From then on, I hadn't tried to do something as idiotic such as committing suicide.

  I used to swim on the deep end when I still lived there, when I swam well and was old enough. I still relive the tragic, near-death experience and is careful when it comes to swimming. As my father asked, "Who drowns; the person who swims well or the person who doesn't? The person who swims well, for when he fools around, he will risk his life, and the person who doesn't swim well does not dare to swim at all."

  He looks at the experience as a bad excuse to get his shirt wet.