In Ontario’s woods, one peaceful day,
Young Michael flipped through pics in May.
Well, August, rather—summer’s gleam—
Of diving deep and chasing dreams.
Adrenaline ran in his blood,
He scaled the peaks, he braved the floods.
A knock then broke his quiet cheer,
A frantic cop would soon appear.
“A man is lost in yonder lake!
We need your gear, for heaven’s sake.
They say you’re skilled beneath the tide,
Will you lend us gear to help him hide?”
Michael paused, then shook his head,
“You can’t just wear the gear,” he said.
“It takes a trained and steady soul—
Let me go down and take control.”
The officer gave thanks sincere,
They packed his tank and diving gear.
They raced through woods, past trees and dam,
Toward the lake, so cold and calm.
By shore, a crowd stood still in dread,
With tear-streaked cheeks and faces red.
The family wept, the cops stood near,
But none had dared to venture clear.
And so, when Michael came in view,
The crowd believed their hope was true.
He scanned the glassy, silent lake,
And vowed a chance he’d surely take.
A ripple twitched, so faint, so small,
But Michael knew—it said it all.
“That’s where I’ll start,” he calmly said,
While heavy silence cloaked with dread.
He donned his mask, then waded in,
With steady breath and quiet grin.
He slipped beneath the surface blue,
And vanished from the watching view.
The minutes passed, the silence grew,
No bubbles rose, no sign or clue.
Yet all still hoped, still held their breath,
Not knowing they had watched his death.
A shout rang out from near the dam,
A runner came, his footsteps slammed.
“We found him!” cried the breathless scout,
“Come quick, come see—just past the spout!”
They raced to where the river lay,
Expecting grim news on display.
The crowd was thick, the tension high,
And what they saw made grown men cry.
For there upon the muddy shore,
Lay Michael still—would breathe no more.
His gear was torn, his face was pale,
His journey told a haunting tale.
Two hours before he took his leap,
A valve had stirred the waters deep.
A worker, hoping to assist,
Had drained the lake through heavy mist.
A pipe, three stories long and wide,
Now sucked the water to the side.
And Michael, drawn by nature’s force,
Was yanked into the current’s course.
The ripple he had used for guide,
Was where the deadly pull did hide.
It stripped his mask, his breath, his hope—
And dragged him through that cursed slope.
His body, crushed, was spit aside,
Where now his family stood and cried.
Four hours on, the swimmer too
Was found not far from Michael’s view.
The man he’d tried so hard to save
Lay lifeless near the lapping wave.
But Michael’s death had paved the way—
A hero lost that tragic day.
The lake is gone—forever drained—
But Michael’s name will long remain.
A soul who dove where few would go,
To save a life he didn’t know.