Under the water I see my feet so clearly. This is not like swimming in the sea, where rough waves topple you and you stumble, blind, afraid of standing on a crab. I’m four years old and we’re on holiday at Lake Tāupo. Later I will learn to float, and become familiar with the call, “Don’t go out of your depth!” from my mother, relaxing back on the shore. But for now I’m toddling around knee-deep, trying to hold handfuls of water, underwater, and wondering at the
way it escapes my clutches. Afterwards, back in the boat, we rock across the surface of the lake, fishing. Little waves pass, each one identical, confusing my notions of past and present. How deep is it here, I ask uncomfortably, imagining an endless cold, blank darkness under our little boat. Oh, about 50 fathoms, my father replies. 50 whats? “Full fathom five,” quotes my mother, “full fathom five, my father lies, his bones are coral made, those are pearls that were his eyes.” I burst into tears, imagining my granddad lying on the bottom of the lake, all alone. Mum explains that actually he’s safe and sound in Karori Cemetery. It’s just a story. There are bones in the lake, for sure. But they are not our bones.
