Swim Lessons

At thirty-three, I’m learning to swim.

When I called my mother and told her this, that for the first time in my life I’m slipping my bone-thin body into a pool for public swimming lessons, she reminded me that she’d already paid for lessons. That I should already know how to swim. “That was over twenty years ago,” I remind her.

“And you’ve forgotten?”

The truth is I’ve never learned to swim. Not well. Not competitively. I’ve learned to flounder, to kick and punch at the water as if it’s challenging me in a street fight. After three weeks of lessons, I still do that. Only, with more grace.

When I was fourteen, I almost drowned. My friends and I were swimming in the wave pool at Worlds of Fun in Kansas City. The waves crashed on top of me. Then they crashed on top of me again. I panicked. I remember being sucked under, the hazy summer light bobbing on the surface seemed miles away, though I was only submerged enough to catch a mouthful of water before rising for air again. I bobbed. I kicked. I punched. If it was a street fight, I was losing.

I wanted to warble out a scream. But to do so would require more breath. When a middle-aged woman with bruises on her ankles floated by on a tube, I grabbed the slick rubbery thing and held on for my life.

Now, I’m learning to swim. Every week (for three consecutive weeks now!) I pay my fees at the Mulberry Pool and swim. I’m learning to kick, but with my legs streamlined and fluid. I’m learning to use my chest as a buoy. I’m learning to pivot and turn and breathe. I’m learning not to punch the water. I’ll never win that fight, anyway.

When I told my wife that I’m learning the fundamentals of the breast stroke, she corrected me. “That’s freestyle, babe.”

I’ve gotten more serious. I bought a Speedo. I make sure my face and head are shaved every morning (though I ignore that my chest and legs are covered in wild fur) so as to prevent drag.

This week, I swam my first twenty-five. That’s a whole half a lap.