By Amanda Knox

I remember it like this: Deanna and I were relegated to the seats while the adults wakeboarded. The speedboat was fun—wind whipped our stringy hair, the bow-broken spray stung our cheeks, and the boat bounced viciously over the waves Uncle Kevin drove zigzag across the lake—but I was six-years-old, and I wanted to try.

Back on shore Mom had reluctantly agreed, so when it was my turn, Uncle Kevin idled the engine while Uncle Mickey and Aunt Christina double-checked the straps of my life vest and pulled out the kneeboard. It was as tall as I was, oval-shaped, the bottom smooth and white, the top a firm, hot pink foam molded to cradle my knees. They laid the board on the stern and showed me how to sit on it, my shins against the foam, my butt on my heels. They pulled a heavy velcro strap across my thighs and gently tipped me into the water, the buoyancy of the board tipping me almost onto my back. I wobbled into starting position—reclined backwards, the front tip of the board pointed towards the sky—and Uncle Kevin revved the engine. “Keep your head up!” they said.

I was jolted forward and lost my hold on the tow-line. A few attempts later, I pulled up and over the churning wake. It was thrilling and abrasive. My whole body tensed to maintain balance and grip; tears streamed from my wind-bitten eyes. I ventured a one-handed wave at Deanna gazing wide-eyed back at me from her seat. That’s when I lost control.

In the tumble, the board flipped over and trapped me beneath the water, my thighs still strapped tightly to the board. I remember darkness, and the feeling of bubbles churning around me. I remember flashes of water-distorted sunlight around the edges of the board, and hitting my forehead against it as I struggled to tip back over. I remember flailing, and trying to kick, and my hands frantically ripping at the heavy strap.

Deanna remembers being first to notice that something was wrong. There was a splash when I lost my grip, Aunt Christina raised the orange flag, and Uncle Kevin steered a wide arc to retrieve me. Deanna saw the white bottom of the board, and as they drove closer, she saw my little hands, just my hands, pecking the surface of the water.

“And I was bewildered,” Deanna recounted between sips of margarita, “because I was only four and I looked around me and suddenly everyone was just gone! Uncle Kevin, Uncle Mickey, and Aunt Christina had all dove into the water to rescue Amanda. I’ll never forget that. Your little hands…”

Deanna and I were reliving the episode for my partner and his friend at an impromptu Cinco de Mayo party at Mom’s house. As we told the story, I was struck by how this single event, my close encounter with drowning, was somehow more real when viewed from both our perspectives. I could visualize myself through Deanna’s memory—my smallness overcome by the board and the lake. I wasn’t small in my memory; rather, the board was big and the strap was heavy and the water was everywhere. Both memories were true, but together they were truer. We bore witness to each other, adding legitimacy and dimension to a consensus reality that was greater than the sum of our individual realities.

I’m familiar with the negative side of consensus reality. Sometimes we aren’t direct witnesses to an event that we want to objectively understand, and we must sift through information anywhere on the reliability scale. This is how courts of law establish truth beyond a reasonable doubt. But sometimes we rely on the wrong proofs—eyewitness misidentification, improper forensics, false admissions/testimony—and objective reality is drowned out by consensus. The consequences are devastating. This moment in the kitchen with Deanna struck me because it was an example of the positive side of consensus reality, and showed how people can help each other better understand what we know.