Whats behind spate of drownings?
In South Boston, gut-wrenching photographs captured waves of trauma hitting the shore: Teixeiras stricken brother, who had struggled alongside him and screamed for help, being helped out of the water by rescuers; the faces of his broken loved ones, weeping and scouring Pleasure Bay for any sign of hope; the young lifeguards, downcast and defeated. His was the latest in a series of drownings this summer , drownings that are starting to look like an epidemic, the losses mounting as heatwaves, the lingering effects of COVID, inequality, and bad luck collide. Advertisement  It took six hours after Teixeira slipped below the surface to recover his body. His was Junes 11th drowning death in Massachusetts. We lost 18 people to drowning in May. Its a question Charnita McClain has been turning over for years. Like many in Black communities, her fear of the water  and her discomfort at beaches and pools  was handed down through the generations. Transfearables, she calls them. My great-grandmothers on both sides didnt swim, my grandmothers didnt swim, my mother didnt swim, her sisters and my siblings dont swim, said McClain, a facilities manager who grew up in Grove Hall. The fear was communicated ... we didnt go near any water.  And not just fear, but a sense of exclusion, too. In the civil rights era, beautiful municipal pools across the country closed rather than allow Black swimmers to join the fun. Our own beaches and pools hosted their share of bigotry and exclusion. And Black people continue to hear messages that the water is not meant for them: Witness last weeks news that swim caps designed for natural Black hair will not be allowed at the Olympics. Advertisement  Though McClain made sure her own three daughters had swimming lessons, she was still gripped by fear, because she knew she couldnt help them if they got into trouble in the water. So, a couple of years ago, she started WeSwim. She enlisted an instructor  it was important that she be a Black woman, like her students  and conquered her fears along with a small group of women every Wednesday night in the pool at the Holland Community Center in Dorchester. McClain, 43, and her fellow students shared stories of terrifying and humiliating trips to water parks and pools. It took several weeks for some of them to even put their faces in the water. But eventually, they got more comfortable. Swimming should be an essential skill, like reading and writing, she said. Her program was picking up steam, but the pandemic has delayed the start of this years classes, as the Holland and other community centers pools still havent opened for the season. Shes frustrated to see Governor Charlie Baker responding to the recent surge in drownings with heftier fines for swimming in unauthorized spots, when whats needed are more lifeguards and much better access to swimming lessons (though the state is pushing those measures, too). And that need extends beyond Black communities  where people drown at 1.5 times the rate as white people, according to the CDC  into Hispanic, immigrant, and poorer communities, too. Advertisement  Conquering a generational aversion to the water isnt easy. My mother saw her 5-year-old brother drown in a racing storm-water channel in 1950, and she was terrified of the water her whole life. It takes every atom of my willpower to avoid limiting my water-loving son the way her fear limited us. Their wrenching loss will likely scar some in Teixeiras grieving family the same way. We dont yet know why he drowned. But one way to lessen the frequency of tragedies like it is to make sure every kid in every school gets access to the swim and safety lessons that could save their lives  or somebody elses. And, just as importantly, to convince them they belong in the water, as much as anybody else does. Globe columnist Yvonne Abraham can be reached at yvonne.abraham@globe.com. Follow her on Twitter @GlobeAbraham.