I didn’t know what a quarry was until I saw the one that would belong to us. A pit carved for mining. Dig what you need – the dynamite gap – leave a hole for evidence. Don’t think about air filling it up. Air fills up everything. Water makes the quarry more than it is; the blue we were drawn to. On the dock, looking out. My mother on one side. My father, the other. Their big shoulders pressing me in.

It was our first summer living beside a lake that wasn’t a lake, with wind tents of blue moving in the jewelled sunlight, up and gone and up again. The limestone, cut into jagged rock, layered with the weight of dead animals, ancient sea animals, imprints. Lush green trees, they surrounded as a forest. Dad had found the place by chance after spotting the For Sale sign outside a white gate that led to a long gravel driveway, a bend that led to a mini-lake, the house of Mom’s dreams.

We made up dives that summer, me and Cindy. The Watermelon Dive – legs in a V. The About-to-Die Dive – a rambling, dramatic shotgun death off the dock. The Scissor Kick Dive – a flutter of pointed legs in the air. And the Drowning Dive – rise to the surface and float like the dead fish that smacked against the limestone rock, oozing decay’s stink. With a two-year advantage, I gave my nine-year-old cousin a three-second head start whenever we raced off the dock to reach the floating raft. Sometimes a hit of the giggles cut through my determination – a memory of something we’d laughed about while lying in the dark, tucked in single beds, or while eating Rice Krispies, opening up our food-filled mouths to shout:see-food diet!

Mom served as judge as she sat on the dock smoking her brand, Benson& Hedges. She was there to rescue us if we were to drown. I knew this was an illusion. Though an athlete, Mom could barely swim and deep water scared her. She excelled at land games, sports with racquets like badminton and tennis, especially tennis. Our shelves of knick-knacks were stacked with gold trophies, tiny females frozen in mid-serve.

“Watch, Mom. Watch!”

“Caitlin Maharg, I’m always watching.”

I dove and then Cindy dove and we made her grade us.

“Ten out of ten,” said Mom.

“Me or Cindy?”