For all my life I have admired swimmers.
I love the young fearless way that little children slap the water, dunking their heads and re-emerging with large smiles. I love watching young swimmers torpedo through the pool. But my favorite swimmers to watch are the almost-elderly. How people in their eighties who can hardly walk on land, can snap a swim cap on their brow, position their goggles snugly on their face and begin to ease across the water baffles me. Inspires me. Urges me. They push off from the low end of the pool and rhythmically bob up and down from one end to the other. It's poetry. On land they are slow and burdened, but in the water they are suspended and free and weightless.
I told myself, "One day." I said this many, many years. Too many years to count.
To feel proactive, I decided to research an adult-swim class. I figured that I should know what classes are available to me in the future. Years from now, I thought. I called my local YMCA and they directed me to another YMCA which had classes starting soon. I spoke to a nice lady who said, "We do have classes. They start tonight. They're $120." There was no time to think about it.
This is the part of the story where I said yes.
There are many fears I addressed before going to my first class.
1. You are an adult. Many adults already know how to swim laps.
To this fear I sighed, "True. Who cares?"
2. You might want to wear your swim skirt.
You know... because you like cookies.
To this thought I said, "The swim skirts weighs me down. I'm there to swim."
3. It's winter. It's too cold to go outside after swimming.
To this excuse I responded, "There are hair dryers and towels."
My instructor came to the class late. A small surge of fear came to me when I surveyed the pool and realized that I was the oldest person in it by two decades. I wondered how rude the instructor would be.
My instructor was 20 years old, a pre-med student on break from school teaching swim. His name was Evan, which felt serendipitous because my daughter Eve was going to be named the same if she was a boy. His upper torso was built in the familiar "V" shape of an avid swimmer. He was kind and courteous and not the least bit condescending.
I jumped in the pool and quickly realized that there were only two adults in the pool for the adult-swim class. The other three classmates were perfecting their already-seemingly perfect strokes.
I plunged under the water and began to show my swim instructor what I already knew. In truth, I knew how to swim. I wanted to learn breathing techniques and better form for swimming laps. I had hoped that my first class would be a cinch. The first 30-minutes found me desperately searching for air. I tried to play it off. "It's fine, it's cool," I told myself, picturing my lips turning blue from poor oxygen levels. It occurred to me that my pride might kill me.
I had to slow down, that was immediately evident. This was going to be harder than I thought.
By the second lesson, I had watched a few YouTube videos on proper form and air intake. To my surprise, the videos were really helpful. The small adjustments of the angle of my head in addition to exhaling-through-nose, inhaling-through-mouth were immediately met with fuller lungs. I was swimming in the water. I was not dying. My lungs were not on fire. This was good. I swam twice as much as the first time and found that, at times, I wasn't breathing properly because I was smiling. It's a little harder to breathe when you're smiling, but it can't be helped when you're happy.
Occasionally the melodramatic side of my mind tossed in a surge of panic. "You are a human. You are not a fish. Why are you doing this? Go home and be a good mother." The panic would throw the pace of breathing off. So I slowed myself the way I do with my children when they are upset. I told myself it was okay and that I was doing a good job. I slowed my pace and my breathing. Then I re-surrendered my body to the pool directing my gaze to the blue pool water, the lines of black tiles in my lane and the embryonic sounds of water beating in my ears.
The last five minutes of my class, a searing cramp crept down my calf and curled my toes into a pathetic fetal position. I was literally lame in the water. My pride could no longer keep me from asking, "So, what happens when you have a cramp?" I asked Evan, trying to not show the full pain on my face. "How much water did you drink today?" he asked. "I was hoping to drink the pool water," I joked, realizing that I was probably quite dehydrated. "Drink 40 ounces before class next time," he offered cooly. I limped out of the pool and seriously considered calling my husband to pick me up.
In the car on the ride home, I felt a sensation inside me which I had forgotten. My heart was beating strong in my chest, thankful for the exercise, but that wasn't what I was feeling. It was pride. Honest, hard-earned, no-nonsense pride. I can only see good from here.
