It was the 1930s and there wasn't much for a 12-year-old boy to do in the small town of Fairfield except go swimming and diving at the old water-filled rock quarry known locally as “The Crusher.”
Every scorching summer, kids from miles around risked it all to dive and dunk in its deep waters. But what those kids didn't know was that if one thing went wrong and your life was plucked out there in those waters, you'd be stolen away, and you would become another midnight swimmer — not under heaven, not under hell, not even in purgatory, but somewhere in between.
And if you were alone, and stood still enough, and listened closely, you may just hear those taken whispering to you, and beckoning you to join them in the
Silent, Dark, and Deep.
Quote:By mid-August, we’d spent practically every sunny afternoon throwin’ down dares at Fairfield’s one and only rock quarry (christened “the Crusher” by Scotty Marsters). Who had the sack to take its highest jump? Who could swim to Doyon’s Finger and back again without drowning?
I was too chicken-shit for anythin’ higher than the twenny-five, except once. Once I did the seventy-five, though not willingly, as you’ll find out later.
My mind’s eye sees them now, the midnight swimmers—cannonballin’ and somersaultin’, executing flawless swan dives with natural precision. I see him, too, skin as white as alabaster under November’s moon, auburn hair shining like a new penny.
Sometimes, his voice comes to me out of the night, when things should be still. But they’re never quite still enough, are they?
“Bill, I don’t want you takin’ needless chances for fun’s sake. People have gotten themselves kilt doin’ foolishness,” Pa had warned. “Watch your step. Be careful. And stay away from that damned quarry.”
I should’ve listened. Ah, kids are gonna be kids, pigheaded and ignorant, and pigheaded was me all over.
