Kim van Alkemade was born in Manhattan and spent her childhood in New Jersey before moving to Wisconsin, where she earned a doctorate in English from UW-Milwaukee.
She moved to the Capital District five years ago after retiring from Shippensburg University of Pennsylvania where she taught writing. She’s published three novels, with her latest, Counting Lost Stars, launching last July with an event at Northshire Bookstore.
Recently, she appeared on GNAT TV's (Greater Northshire Access Television) So VT Book Talk, presented the Greyfriar Reading at Siena College, taught an online class for the Adirondack Center for Writing, and participated on a panel at the NYS Writers Institute's Albany Book Festival.
She makes her home in Saratoga Springs with her partner, their two rescue dogs, and a couple of feisty backyard chickens. In her story “Deep Water Test” Kim relates how she found herself – quite literally – out of her depth.
Deep Water Test
By Kim van Alkemade
The hook hovered over me like a severed hula-hoop at the end of a pole. I refused to reach for it, despite my waterlogged lungs and wobbly arms.
As I flailed and splashed through the green waters of Lake Beisler, the summer camp lifeguard stepped sideways along the aluminum dock, following me with the hook. He practically pleaded with me to let him haul me out of the water, but reaching for that hook was as impossible for me as passing the deep-water swimming test was turning out to be.
I’m not even sure why I joined the line of eight-year-old campers who wanted to prove they could swim safely past the shallow crescent near the pebbly shore. I didn’t like being out of my depth — not in school, where my behavior wasn’t compliant enough to please my teachers; not at home, where my dad’s latest disappearance was explained away with lies; and definitely not here, in a cold lake where slimy weeds stroked the bottoms of my feet. But for some reason I had lined up, nervously waiting my turn in my blue polka-dot swimsuit with the white ruffled skirt.
To pass the deep-water test, a camper had to swim the length of the dock and back without stopping or grabbing hold. As soon as I let go of the ladder and launched myself into the lake, I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. Apparently, I’d forgotten I couldn’t actually swim.
I’d waded into streams before and splashed around the pool at the YMCA, but I’d never been taught how to put my face in the water, blow out bubbles, then turn to the side to breathe air in. Instead, I held my head up as best I could, gasping and choking while water filled my mouth. I smacked my arms haphazardly as my frantic legs churned below the opaque surface. Through tears, I kept the end of the dock in sight, ignoring the hook whenever it dipped into my blurry field of vision. The dock couldn’t have been more than thirty feet long, but I fought for every inch of it.
I reached the end, but having reached it, I had to splash myself around in a sloppy circle to return, again, to the metal ladder. The lifeguard’s entreaties became more desperate as I propelled myself forward. Finally, my fist closed on the aluminum railing. My feet found purchase on the ribbed metal steps. I hauled my little body up onto the dock, knees weak and stomach sloshing. Limp with relief at still being alive, I vowed never to venture past the buoy line into deep water for the rest of that summer in the Catskills.
The incredulous lifeguard congratulated me on my courage, but I hadn’t spurned his hook because I was brave. I’d kept struggling blindly forward because here at camp, as at school and at home, I hadn’t yet learned to reach a trusting hand for help when I was in over my head.