Lake Superior Journal: Iron Man

by

Maritime

His name is Rafael. We shortened it to Rafe. His grandmother calls him Rafey. When he started to say his own name, he pronounced it “Fe,” so that’s what we call him now. Fe, the elemental symbol for iron, so we joke that he is Iron Man.

One warm late-summer Sunday we took Fe and his baby sister, Esther – just 1 month old – out to Mazurka, our floating cabin on Lake Superior. Before the babies, my husband and I lived year-round in downtown Chicago on this 38-foot trawler. Today, there are five of us – an additional son, Anton, since this story unfolded – and we live on land in northern Minnesota. The point here is that both Mark and I are very familiar with boats, water safety and, after No. 3, with babies.

But before the arrival of Anton, every weekend we’d pack up the two little ones and trek up to Knife River and to Mazurka.

On this particular Sunday, we planned to swing by to check a few things at the boat, then go for a hike. We had just gotten to Mazurka. Mark was inside the cabin; Fe was with him. I was at the car securing Esther to my chest in a newfangled wrap.

As I walked out to the dock, Fe was starting to climb out of the boat and onto the stepladder. I stood behind him as he descended, carefully, as a 2-year-old does. His feet crossed, and I observed calmly as he figured out how to straighten them out. For a brief moment I saw myself watching my 2-year-old climb out of the boat and wasn’t I wise for letting him untangle his feet on his own, for not rushing to help him at the slightest hitch? This built independence and the kind of confidence we value.

I was not thinking, as I had every time before this and, believe me, every time since – Fe doesn’t have on a life jacket.

He missed the bottom step. He slipped to the dock, lay on his back for a second, then rolled over into the water between the dock and Mazurka.

I have spent more than a few days flogging myself for not following our solid rule that afternoon – the children always wear a life jacket by water. But we were only going to be there a minute.

It all happened so fast. On my day of reckoning, I will get to watch the recap and then I’ll know what really happened. But today, what I recall is that I got down on my knees and, with Esther strapped to my chest, tried to reach for him.

I snagged his sweatshirt, so flimsy it just slipped through my hands. Fe went under.

I screamed for Mark, then scrambled down into the water. Maybe I fell. I kept one hand on the dock and kept Esther’s head above water, her body tight to my chest. I tried to grab Fe with my free hand, but when I reached out, he was gone.

In my mind’s eye, I saw Fe in 8 feet of murky green Lake Superior water, sinking.

Mark came out, shouting, “Where is he?”

“I don’t see him!” I yelled. Mark jumped in the water on the other side of the dock. We don’t know why he didn’t jump in right where Fe fell. Thank God he didn’t.

Through the space between floats under the dock, I spotted Fe, treading water … inches from his dad.

“I see him!” I yelled.

“I got you, I got you,” Mark was saying.

I felt a rush of relief; he was safe. Then there was splashing and flailing, and I wondered if Mark really had him and could get onto land.

In the small gap between the boat and the dock, Mazurka began to close in on me. I pushed my back against it; I had to figure out a way out of the water.

My infant daughter wouldn’t do well in the Lake too long. I wasn’t sure what to grab, or how to climb up.

Mark was making his way along the side of the dock, toward the stern of the boat, where the swim platform and extendable ladder waited. I followed, keeping Esther’s head above water. Remarkably, she wasn’t crying or fussing, just looking around like an old deckhand.

At the platform, Mark had Fe on the ladder, telling him to climb up. Fe was crying but following directions. Mark climbed up behind him and put our son safely on the deck of the boat. I was still in the water with Esther and couldn’t get hold of the ladder well enough to leverage us out.

Mark reached down, and I raised our tiny wet newborn up to him. Once I climbed up, we hurried inside the cabin, stripped off our clothes and huddled together under sleeping bags to warm our kids.

The funny thing was, the water wasn’t even that cold.

How does a 2-year-old fall into Lake Superior and make his way under a 6-foot-wide dock to where his dad randomly chooses to jump in to find him?

We questioned Fe; he wasn’t talking. At first we thought the whole experience had permanently scarred him, that he’d be mute for life. Then he asked to go up to the salon to play, then for snacks. He showed us how he dog paddled; he didn’t seem scared at all.

Fe doesn’t swim. He was 2 years old then and still doesn’t like cold water. A couple of months earlier, we took him to a water park and he dog paddled in the hot tub while wearing a life jacket (yes, even there he had a life jacket). We cruised for 10 days in the Apostles before Esther was born, and while Mark and I swam in 80-degree water, Fe stayed on the beaches, proclaiming the water was too cold.

So how he managed to swim under the dock, to the exact spot where Mark jumped in, only to be plucked up by his dad instantly … we don’t know, but we have our beliefs.

In the years since this near tragedy, I’ve tried to sort it out. Fe has heard us tell the story so many times that he tells it, too, taking on the role of the narrator and referring to us by our first names. I’m convinced we witnessed a miracle. But receiving a miracle does not bring breathless gratitude the way I once thought it would. Instead, I vacillate between guilt at failing my son by not keeping a life preserver on him and awe that he survived our misstep. We stood at a crossroads that day, and in another world, we may have lost our son to the water. In this world, some unseen hand reached down and taught the Iron Man to swim.

We won’t expect more miracles. We’ve learned our lesson, and I tell this story so that you can learn it, too, without ever getting wet or feeling that fear.

Felicia Schneiderhan grew up on the Mississippi River, the daughter of a nun caught by a fisherman. This fall, her memoir Newlyweds Afloat: Married Bliss and Mechanical Breakdowns While Living Aboard a Trawler will be published, chronicling three years living on a boat in Chicago. She lives in Duluth with Mark and their three small tsunamis.