In very short order I recognize that my progress is quite slow. I sense the burden of my pants. They are dragging me to a snail’s pace. I think about any warmth they are giving me and weigh that against the speed that I hope I will gain without them.
As these thoughts course through my cold, slowly numbing brain, I remember a lifeguard technique I learned thirty years earlier. I remember training at the YMCA with a lifesaving team called the Flying Sharks. Under the demanding yet loving coaching demeanor of Tom Smith, I learned how to use common pants as flotation devices. In fact, I remember Tom, in his coaching voice, encouraging me to keep doing these most exhausting maneuvers, yelling over the commotion in the pool, “Come on, Zaharik. One day this will save your life!”
My decision is made. Off with the pants. Treading water I tie knots in the ankles and lay the pants out in front of me. On my back, the pants are facing me with the waist up. I heave them in an arch over my head, hoping that the technique will really work, filling the legs with air. As the pants splash down behind my head, I sink beneath the cold water once again. I pull on the waist and I am pleased to find resistance, resistance caused by an inflated leg. Only one?
Disappointed, I do it again.
With mind-bending exertion, I throw the pants in what will become an all too familiar arch again. Again only one leg. Then I remember. I have a hole in the left knee . . . “Oh for crying out loud,” I exclaim. “Why do I always have to wear pants with holes in them?” I laugh. The first laugh of many laughs during my night of deep desperation.