“Get out!” the kids screamed as I naively cannonballed into the crystal-clear water for the hundredth time. “It’s coming, it’s coming!” they shouted, but my eight-year-old brain, more interested in having fun than doing the hard work of language learning, hadn’t the foggiest idea what they were saying.

Bursting to the surface, I was bombarded with more yelling. Something must be wrong, I thought to myself. Maybe I should go join the kids on the bank.

As I swam lazily toward the shore, I saw my friend, Delpin, pointing toward the water. Glancing down, my eyes opened wide in horror, and I began swimming for the bank with all my might. The kids on the bank hollered encouragement, trying to pull me toward them by sheer volume, but it all sounded like jabbering to me.

I was too late. I saw the horrible thing drifting toward me, a long, bloody piece of intestine. Someone upriver was cleaning a freshly slaughtered animal, letting the offal wash away, right into our swimming hole.
There was no escape now. The flood of grey, stinking water surrounded me as I dragged myself onto the bank, bits of entrails trailing from my shorts. I was met with more jabbering as the kids kept a respectful distance from my wreaking body.

That forever ended my passive approach to language learning. I was determined never again to be caught in such a situation. Looking back, I’m glad it happened. After all, sometimes it takes a bath in the sewer to wake you up.

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