Chronicle of a near-death foretold

By El Cid
"Watch that boy in the pool!", were the last words my father-in-law shouted in the background as she spoke to her mum on the phone, before we went on holiday.
And my sole beef with the last book I had read -- Freakonomics -- was its assertion that a child in gun-crazy America was more likely to drown in a pool than die in a firearm incident.
So it was horribly ironic that my youngest -- a 2-1/2 year old boy -- should almost cop it before my very eyes only days later.
It's an experience I would not wish on anyone, let alone a parent.
In fact, it feels a little wrong to want to write about, but I also feel it is my duty to recount what happened because it could so easily happen to you.
I've seen a drowned man before, when I was little, in Spain -- a powerfully built German who used to swim from beach to beach every day but who one day got caught up in a deadly undercurrent that had his name on it -- the pale blue lips and pallid face.
I remember it well.
But this was a lot worse, not just because of the familiarity of the victim but because of his age.
Maybe I'm dwelling on it in a sadomasochistic way, but it was straight out of the most horrible horror movie.
It reminded me of Omen II, when a young boy fell through the ice and was swept along under the translucent sheen, too fast for anyone to save and yet all to clear for all to see.
Thankfully, there was a happy ending this time, and the little big man is back to his cheery self, but I'm still a bit affected by it.
Four of us were in the pool -- mum, dad and his two elder siblings -- unsuccessfully trying to create a human tower.
We were unsuccessful but determined and having a right laugh. You all know what I'm talking about. You've all been there.
We were noisy and enjoying ourselves.
Manolo watched from the sidelines.
Or so we thought, because as I rose for the umpteenth time from under the water with my wife on my shoulders, she suddenly asked: "Where's Manolo?"
I looked around and he wasn't there -- at least he wasn't where he had been when I last looked which was I-dunno-how-many minutes ago.
I swept the pool and there was a tuft of blond hair just above the water. MANOLO!!!!!!!
I threw the missus off -- she shouted the same thing a split-second after I had and I remember hoping that I hadn't thrown her against the wall -- and I swam to the boy.
He was completely limp as I pulled him out and his belly was badly distended with what one presumed was pool water. I genuinely feared the worse.
But suddenly a look in his eye gave me hope -- he was zombie-like and very unwell but he was definitely still alive.
I gave him to the missus who seemed positive if extremely worried.
I was in pieces.
She put him on her shoulder and out it came in three, huge separate voms: loads and loads of water, with a hint of pink.
It was going our way but he was still zombie-like.
I rang a couple of friends who were doctors.
I tried the one who worked in casualty first.
No answer.
I tried the other one. Bingo!
Could he speak? My wife nodded that he had groaned.
A good sign. It meant something or other wasn't blocked, my Doctor mate said.
Had he been unconscious at any time? I didn't know. My wife said no.
But he was still very zombie-like I said. Maybe he had water in the lungs I said.
It's possible, but it doesn't sound as bad as it could have been, he reassured me. Either way you need to go to hospital and get him X-rayed.
OK Doc. Much appreciated. Thanks.
I felt a teeny bit better. My mum who had been watching the telly inside was also there. So my grip slipped on the lid I had on the emotions erupting inside. I burst into tears.
My kids had never seen their dad cry before. I didn't imagine it was a pretty or even appropriate sight. So I went into the house to compose myself. Five minutes later we were in the car on the way to hospital.
Six hours later we were back with a rather more cheeky chappy.
It only takes 30 seconds to drown, according to the Freaknomics book I had read.