Not because the water is deep, but because the world is loud.
The pool is full of reflections—faces bending, phones hovering, hands ready to clap or point or scroll. The baby monkey sits at the edge, feet dangling, tail curled like a question mark. Everyone keeps saying it’s natural, like nature is a switch you flip instead of a language you learn.
The water looks cold, even under the sun. It ripples every time someone else jumps in, waves crashing into the monkey’s tiny ankles. He grips the concrete, fingers small but stubborn. Somewhere inside him is the instinct they keep talking about, buried under fear and curiosity and the strange awareness of being watched.
He doesn’t know the rules yet. He doesn’t know how to float, or fail safely, or that sinking isn’t the same as disappearing. All he knows is that the water moves without asking permission, and that scares him.
A leaf drifts by on the surface. It doesn’t fight. It doesn’t rush. It just goes where the water takes it. The baby monkey notices this. He leans forward, nose almost touching the surface, breath fogging the blue. The water smells like possibility.
Someone says, “Any second now.”
But learning isn’t a performance. It’s a quiet negotiation between fear and trust. The monkey slips one foot in, then pulls it back out, heart racing like he’s run miles instead of inches. He laughs—surprised by himself. The sound is small, but real.
b4by m0nkey c4n’t swim yet.
