Going Down for the Third Time
(Waterfront safety instruction was not enough)
Screen 1 of 2It happened on a beautiful afternoon in June at Beech Bend Park, located two or three miles from Bowling Green. Three of my friends and I, along with several others I did not know, were swimming in Barren River which flows through the park.
All was going well. Even though there were neither diving boards nor a riverside dock at this popular swimming place, we were having lots of fun diving from one of the big trees which stretched out over the river and chasing each other in the water. We swam here often because we liked the many beech trees along the bank, the cool, calm water, and also because it was cheap. Admission to the park was only ten cents, and there was no extra charge for swimming. Sometimes we would walk from town and catch a ride back. At other times, we would walk both ways. In those days, private automobiles were only for the rich, and even bicycles were a luxury that neither my close friends nor I could afford. So we walked nearly everywhere we went.
Then an eighteen-year-old freshman at Western, I was a veteran swimmer and diver. Thurman Anderson, Tip Williams, Eldridge Aspley, and I had been swimming together at this spot in the summer and at the local Y.M.C.A. pool during the other seasons for at least six or seven years. In addition, when I was fifteen I had completed a waterfront safety course ("life saving" it was called then) and had served as the senior lifeguard at Camp Mammoth Cave for the previous two summers. As a result of all this experience, I felt fully qualified to respond and give needed help to anyone who might be having trouble in deep water.
Therefore, when I heard a loud call for help that day at Beech Bend Park, I immediately swam out toward the middle of the river to help. At first, I didn't know who was in trouble, but the voice was not that of a child. As I drew nearer, I could see that it was a man--a big man. He was frantically waving his arms, thrashing about in the water, and yelling, just before going down for the second time. When his head reappeared, I realized I knew him. It was Bob Drennon, a huge tackle on Western's football team. I later learned he weighed about two hundred pounds.
By the time I reached him, he was wild-eyed and desperate, and without warning he stretched both his arms out and clasped me tightly to his chest. There I was suddenly caught in a powerful bear hug of a man who must have outweighed me by at least seventy pounds. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before--neither in the waterfront safety class nor while I was a lifeguard at camp, where I had pulled others to safety. But I had never tried to rescue a person this big. And I became frightened--quite frightened.
I did have presence of mind, however, to try some of the tricks I had been taught to use with a person about to drown, such as hitting him in the jaw and going under water and twisting his arm, in an effort to free myself from his grasp. But nothing worked. He was too strong. His grip began to squeeze the air out of my lungs, and my strength began gradually to leave me. It was then that I called for help.
Two of my friends (Thurman Anderson and Tip Williams, I believe) heard me and began swimming toward us, as we both were about to go under again--the third time for Bob. They arrived just in time to catch hold of our hair and bathing suits, and in the scramble they tore off the top part of Bob's one-piece suit. (In those days, boys as well as girls wore one-piece bathing suits, including straps over the shoulders.) Then all four of us were in a crucial struggle, but I was so exhausted I could not be of much help. Thurman was the first to make any progress. Being almost as big as Bob and free enough to move about, he was able to strike Bob's chin with a powerful blow, powerful enough to knock this burley football player unconscious. When that happened, Bob released his hold on me and started to sink.
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