We lived on a farm and the running water (when we were old enough) was my brother and myself. The farm had its own well. Like all infrastructure, a well has to maintained. My parents noticed bits of the wooden cribbing in the water hauled to the house. The cribbing had to be fixed and then the fallen bits had to be retrieved.
That's where my Dad and I came in. Him, with his trusty farmhand, a bit like the one pictured above and me, the small enough one. He secured a seat (short plank) to a length of rope and then fastened it to the lift of the farm hand. The well was opened and I, sitting, on the plank was lowered into the well with a small bucket. When I was close enough, I fished the wood from the cribbing out and put it in the bucket. I had had plenty of instruction and warnings about carefully doing the task. I can remember looking up at the circle of light that marked the ground's surface, the intense cold of the well water on my bare feet, and not feeling particularly afraid. My Dad knew what he was doing. Once I had as much wood gathered as I could, I was then raised back to the surface, safe and sound. Our well was repaired and that was that.
Imagine, all this was accomplished without a special helmet (no helmet at all), no safety belt, no padded seat and no waterproof well-cleaning shoes. (Not even a snorkel.) I emerged from the experience, unscathed.
I'm not trying to denigrate safety or caring for kids. (My Dad was the best.) I am saying that protecting children too much doesn't help them in the long run.
I've been married a long time and often write about everyday events.