David Hill: thankyou to whoever saved me from drowning when I was a boy

David Hill: "The pool was huge, six times as big as our school one. I remember standing dazzled by its expanse of glittering water." Photo / Getty Images

David Hill remembers the summer he was saved

This summer, I want to thank the young man who saved me from drowning when I was an ignorant kid, a whole lot of other summers ago.

I was staying for a week with an aunt a few towns away, when cousins Howard and Peter announced we were all going to the swimming baths.

Excitement and eagerness from the 7-year-old I was then. Apprehension, too. I couldn't swim properly. Our school baths back home were just ribcage-deep and my only stroke was a flailing dog-paddle that kept me half afloat.

My cousins reassured me. There was a shallow part; they'd show me.

Next morning, Aunt Gwen dropped the three of us outside a stucco frontage labelled "MUNICIPAL SWIMMING BATHS". Howard grandly handed over the admission fee and we passed through the turnstile.

The pool was huge, six times as big as our school one. I remember standing dazzled by its expanse of glittering water into which figures were plunging, while others shouted or splashed by the sides.

When I glanced up, my cousins had vanished. But I saw the sign I was used to from public places in our town – "MEN' – so I headed for it.

No sign of Peter and Howard in the changing room, either. And only adult males were there, a few of whom glanced at me curiously. I didn't take much notice; I was in too much of a hurry to join the others splashing in the marvellous water.

I came out of the changing room, ran straight across the concrete to the pool's edge and jumped.

And sank. I remember going straight down, kicking and struggling, in water which seemed to have no bottom.

My first feeling was embarrassment. Howard and Peter had said the pool was shallow. I must have done something wrong, something stupid.

My body seemed to rise of its own accord and my head broke through into the air. The yelling and splashing of swimmers was all around me. My legs and arms thrashed in their clumsy dog-paddle and, for a moment, they kept me afloat. Then I sank again, snatching a half-breath as I went under.

I pedalled wildly but kept going down. The legs of swimmers scissored past. I tried to grab someone but sank deeper.

I came up again, faster this time. I managed a spluttering yell but the shouts and splashes all around overwhelmed it. Down I went once more.

My chest and head and ears were one squeezing pain. As I rose for the third time – the last, said the story books I'd read – I realised my legs were kicking in a different rhythm, half-supporting me. I tried to kick faster.

A portrait of the author, David Hill, aged about 7.

On the edge of the pool, a young man stood watching. He was frowning, trying to decide if he was seeing a kid in trouble or just someone mucking about in the water.

I had no breath to yell. I lifted one arm from the water and signalled, beckoned to him. As I went under for the final time, he plunged into the pool, straight at me.

A hand grabbed my upper arm. I was hauled in a sweep towards the side of the baths. My shoulder rammed into the slimy, cold, beautiful tiles of the pool wall.

The hand dragged me sideways to the metal steps leading down into the water and pulled us both on to them. Three seconds later, I crouched, shuddering and gasping, on the concrete.

A dark-haired young man stood over me. He'd saved my life. Did I thank him? Hell, no. I grunted, "I'm – I'm never going in there again!" and staggered away. I don't know if he said anything.

I got dressed, shaking so much, I could hardly push my arms into my shirt sleeves or buckle my roman sandals. Outside, I flopped down on one of the wooden benches, still shivering, turning my face up to the sun.

Slowly, my body began to calm. Yes, I saw now, there was a shallow end to the pool. Peter and Howard were splashing around there. I couldn't see the young man.

A few more minutes and my cousins arrived beside me. Where had I been? Hadn't I gone in? They'd looked everywhere; couldn't find me.

I don't know what I mumbled. They watched me for a while, said "Mum'll be here soon", headed off towards a room labelled "BOYS", which I registered for the first time.

I sat on, in sunlight which had never felt so warm and bright. My shoulder hurt where it had rammed into the pool wall as the young man shoved me. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered just now.

I never told anyone what had happened. I still felt it was my fault, somehow. If Aunt Gwen found out, I'd get told off. Peter and Howard might get into trouble. But when I got home at the end of my holiday, I asked my mother if I could take swimming lessons.

And I never found out who the young man was who'd given me another seven decades of life. He'd have been about ...18? 20? He may not even be alive now. If he is; if by any chance he reads and recognises this story, I'll say the simple words that a shaken, shocked 7-year-old couldn't say then. Thank you.