By Sanman Thapa | 6-19-2024| 8:30 AM; Revised 2:05pm
Dreams:
Flash floods came out of nowhere and would steadily rise, enclosing where I stood; I panicked. Looking around, I saw water everywhere and desperately sought higher ground. Eventually, I located a safer vantage point and ran as fast as possible. I was drenched with sweat, hyperventilating, and gasping for air. When I got there and looked back, it seemed that the water was not rising any longer, took a deep breath and waited for the water to recede before returning home.
In one dream, I’d found myself stranded on a small island, surrounded by water, with no means of escape. This time, I was sure I would be drowned. But miraculously, the water did not drown the little island, and I had some dry spots to stand on.
In another, I was going somewhere, and I had to cross the river along the way. Suddenly, I was pulled by the strong current and swept away. I was panicking and screaming, but no one could hear me. I tried kicking my feet, spaced with my hands, and gasping for air but ended up swallowing water. I was choking but ended up on the other side of the river. Don’t ask me how. All I was doing was moving all parts of my body.
Every time, panic would take over, jolting me awake. I would be drenched in sweat, trembling, yet relieved to find myself awake. Even in adulthood, I experienced these recurring nightmares about drowning, triggered by a few significant incidents from my past.
First Incident:
In the early hours of Saturday morning, I got up lazily. My mom was busy in the kitchen, and as I stepped outside, my grandmother was tending the animals in the barn. My father was always an early bird, and I assumed he had gone down to work on our future house.
It was a brisk morning. As I stood on the edge of the front yard, the day was clear; I could see far-rolling mountains. The smell of the fresh air woke all my senses, so I decided to walk down to see what my dad was up to.
I felt no urgency, just toiling with my little feet to climb down the steep path made of small slates and stones. Along the way, I passed the vegetable garden, a green grassy patch for animals. I could hear the birds chirping on the trees, bumble bees buzzing, and butterflies hovering over the wildflowers.
The house my dad was building for us was a few minutes walk from our family house, but it probably took me 10 minutes to get there. When I arrived, my dad was not there, but he had channeled water from nearby springs to fill the foundation to settle and solidify soil. The foundation was six feet deep and four feet wide, shaped like a rectangular canal for the house’s four walls. Finding him absent, I began to walk along the edge, observing the cloudy and muddy water rising from the base. Suddenly, my left foot slipped, and I tumbled in.
I must have been approximately five years old, standing at a height of less than four feet. No one could see me from a distance since the foundation was almost 6 feet deep. I feared sinking, especially as the water continued to rise, and the mud crept up to my ankles with every struggle. My anxiety compounded as my feet got stuck in the muddy ground, and I attempted to climb out, but there was nothing to grasp onto.
I cried and yelped for help as I splashed and struggled to move, though no one was nearby to hear me. I don’t remember how long I was trapped, but the water had risen to my chest. Suddenly, I felt a yank on my right hand. My eyes were covered in muddy water, but when I wiped them, I saw it was our neighbor, whom we called “paripatus ki deedi” (“Phupu”). My guardian angel.
She was upset and scolded me, even slapping my back. I didn’t understand why she would hit me when I had almost drowned. She wrapped me in her thick shawl and hurried me home, where my mom was shocked to see me all wet and muddy. Phupu, too, was soaked from rescuing me. She explained that she had heard my cries and splashing water as she passed by our new house and rushed to pull me out.
Phupu called out to my dad from the edge of our front yard until he responded from the field. He hurried home, panting from the uphill run. My parents were upset and angry with me for wandering off, likely feeling embarrassed and inadequate as parents. Yet, they were also grateful to Phupu for rescuing me.
Second Incident:
It was monsoon season, hot and humid, and rivers were swelling. (At this point, we had relocated from the Panchthar mountainous region to the Tarai area called the Jhapa district.) My neighbor’s daughter Kaali, who was my age about ten years old, came over to see if I wanted to swim in the nearby river. I had finished my chores for the morning, and my parents were still working in the field, so I agreed.
We cut banana trunks to use as makeshift floatation devices and ventured into the shallower part of the river, about three feet deep. Neither of us could swim, so we relied on the trunks to stay afloat while practicing our kicks, enjoying the cool water on that scorching summer day.
Nearby was a small pond where the river flowed through, creating a small whirlpool. The pond was about 20-25 feet deep, with water swirling before exiting. As we grew more comfortable, I ventured deeper, feeling confident. Suddenly, I found myself near the whirlpool and felt it pulling me in.
Panic set in. I tried to return to the shallower side, but the current was relentless, pulling me in circles. I lost my grip on the banana trunk, my legs twisted, and I struggled to reach the surface. I eventually grabbed some vegetation at the pond’s edge and pulled myself to safety.
The ordeal felt like an eternity, but I emerged, vomiting and struggling to breathe. My friend Kaali, terrified, had been crying and calling for help, but no one could hear her. She ran to me when she saw I was safe, and we both felt immense relief.
Swimming Lessons:
When I moved to the United States, I developed a fondness for the beach and snorkeling. Yet, my fear of deep water persisted, manifesting in my dreams. I dreamed of learning to swim and explore the ocean’s depths, but the fear of not feeling the ground beneath my feet was overwhelming.
One day, I confessed my fear of water to my girlfriend. She urged me to enroll in swim lessons at the YMCA, explaining that if we were to spend summers at the beach, I needed to know how to swim. Motivated to feel at ease in the water, I signed up for lessons.
My swim instructor was a stern, elderly gentleman who emphasized keeping my body afloat and practicing proper kicks. I struggled to stay afloat and felt embarrassed not knowing how to swim at 33. As my instructor grew frustrated, he told me there were two body types: floaters and sinkers, and I was a sinker.
After a few lessons, I contemplated quitting. Staying afloat was a constant battle. But I persevered, wanting to conquer my fear and ease my girlfriend’s anxiety. I signed up for another ten lessons despite not liking my instructor’s uncompromising approach.
By the end of the second set of lessons, I had made significant progress. I could swim freestyle across the pool, float on my back, and perform a backstroke. My ability to stay submerged improved, and I no longer felt like I was drowning. I was proud of conquering my fear of water, and most importantly, my recurring nightmares disappeared. Eventually, I had inadvertently addressed and overcome my trauma of drowning.
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Sanman Thapa 
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