The Swimming Suit
Swimming suits say a lot about a person, and are as varied as the reasons people go swimming. A bikini might say you are confident with your body, or you like to be in style, or you are out to attract a boy, or you don’t know any better. One-piece suits may hide more flaws, cover up, and keep the sun from burning that much more of your skin. Board shorts are fun, jammers are tight and sleek for racing, and Speedos, while used by serious swimmers, can also be found on any beach, at any pool worn by the skinniest man with no butt to fill out the back, or the biggest man whose large sagging belly droops so low you can barely make it out. Bright colors like a peacock draw your gaze, black minimizes your bulges, tee-shirts hide most everything when dry, and not so much when they are wet. Low-cut suits are a bother to mothers continually pulling them up as their children are pulling them down. Tankinies offer the look of a one piece, but the convenience of a two piece, which is significant if you are trying to pull up a wet swim suit after using the restroom. In the end you should wear a suit in which you are confident and fits the occasion, whether swimming laps, sunbathing, playing, or attracting attention.
Motivation
Jostling, teasing, weaving, punching, bleary-eyed and shivering the youth file in, swim bags dragging, towels thrown over their shoulders. Six in the morning, summer time, inky darkness, and most of their piers will be in bed for another four hours. The hush around the deck, previously broken only by the gentle lapping of the water against the tiled pool wall, is now permeated with groans and moans as swimmers stretch their tight muscles. Murmurs flow around the group like the soft clucks of chickens rising in the morning, as one by one they drop into the chilly pool. It is here they will prove themselves. Arms driving forward, head focused down, occasionally glancing ahead to spot the swimmer pulling ahead of them, pushing harder to catch up. Kira just made the junior Olympic swim team, she snaps her goggles into place, is the first in the water, her ears turned to Coach Frank’s instructions, and leaps forward for her first set, and 400 yard freestyle warm-up. Alex is pulling girls swim suit straps leaving small welts across their backs, knocking into his friends, ignoring the coaches until at last he is shoved into the pool. He puts in enough effort to keep up with the pack. Few have the dedication to excel. They are all excellent swimmers, though they will never be the best, they find satisfaction in individual performance and achievement, gaining self-esteem and confidence. Most just come to swim.
Moving
Monday, Wednesday and Friday at 5:15 am Don shuffles out on to the pool deck slightly dragging his slipper covered feet. His once black hair is diluted by white and gray, covered by a charcoal colored swim cap pulled tightly over his head resting just above his bushy gray eyebrows. His mustache, thick and black, perches on his upper lip like a fuzzy caterpillar. He smiles a friendly smile, blue eyes clear and intelligent, and waves a right-handed salute as he totters by, white towel draped over his forearm swinging with each step. The same every time, a comforting routine noticed by staff and missed when he’s gone. He hangs his towel over the pool railing, heaves one leg over the bottom of the dried up water slide, pulls the other leg in, then repeats the process until he is safely on the other side, he doesn’t like to make the walk to the other side of the pool where he could easily access his lane line of choice – the one closest to the shallow end. Don slips off his sandals and stiffly lowers himself to the pools edge. It is always cold, usually about eighty-one degrees, but today it is colder, and the seventy-nine degrees has him dangling his feet on the side longer than usual. His lips press tightly together, but they cannot hold back his gasp as he slips into the pool, the water just under his armpits. Throwing his arms back and forward in an attempt to warm up, he checks and rechecks his goggles for fit and comfort and eases down, submerging into the muted blue world beneath the surface. Legs kick a slow rhythm, so slow they drag through the water at a forty-five degree angle. Arms, barely clearing the water, reach forward and fall heavily, plodding, beating a sluggish cadence. New lifeguards often worry he is drowning. Touch the wall, pause, and turn, he will rest when he reaches the opposite side, bowed over hands gripping the wall, taking deep breathes, fortifying himself for his next lap. There are swimmers in the pool who out lap him four to one. He comes, he moves, he breathes, he struggles, his effort noticed only by the lifeguard.
Awareness
Florescent lights reflect back from dark shadeless windows, it is too early for the sun when Mr. Stevens comes to the pool for therapy, the only time his caregivers have available to help him dress, undress, shower, do his exercises, and help with the rudimentary aspects of life that once were mechanical and now almost impossible. Simple fluid movements: lifting one foot in front of the other, rising from a chair, speaking your name - are childlike and clumsy; a constant struggle to connect his brain’s wants with his body’s responses. Like a crumbling empty building haunted by ghosts and voices of past lives, his memories echo through empty halls. The body housing his spirit shows few signs of its former glory: a gold chain with a pendant, an expensive ring, and an occasional random coherent comment rising from somewhere deep, an awareness battling to the surface from a fog that clouds what’s left of his once fertile mind. A tumor, black and hungry sends tendrils through his brain to wrap around his thoughts and cripple his body, reduced him to a life dependent on others - others he has to pay to take care of him. His bitterness shows in slaps of frustration in the water, mumbling, mixed up, angry words, and refusal to do his exercise. He spent years building his career, focusing on climbing the corporate ladder to become a chief executive of a prestigious computer company. While other fathers were playing catch with their sons, he was staying late, getting ahead, providing the “finer” things in life for himself and his family. They took the only thing he had to give them (his money), and left, first his wife, and then his children, gone to California, too far away to help or even visit. Occasionally a colleague greets him at the pool and heartily encourages him to pick up his feet; for a brief instant he feels himself, intact, a man again, released from the mental prison that is more binding than solid iron bars.
Aging
Spry at eighty-three, Beverly’s hair is still dark with only traces of gray, a genetic trait envied by most women, a sip from the fountain of youth. To some she seems standoffish, her quiet voice and shy ways making it difficult for people to get to know her. A devoted mother, grandmother, and now great grandmother she leaves for weeks at a time visiting her increasing posterity, but staying fit enough to offset her increasing age is a priority. She makes time to exercise. It’s not about living forever, but about the quality of life. Usually, the shallow end of the pool is her personal track. Her simple routine consists of trudging through the water, legs pushing away the weight of the water while hands and arms pull down and back. Eventually, she moves on to riding a water noodle around in a large circuit, first she rides it like a bike, pumping her knees up and down, her feet moving in smooth circular motions, then reaching out as far forward as she can and pulling back against the water. Around and around for twenty-five minutes until her routine is finished. It is not a lot of time to spend for the rewards that she reaps. Many at her age are content to sit and watch their “programs,” rising from their recliner chairs only to ease an aching muscle or to answer the phone, some are already in a nursing home dependent on others for their care, but she wants to continue to contributing and participating in life. Life has been complete and rewarding, full of challenges, trials, joys, and sorrows, but like a painter finishing a picture, the already bright and beautiful image becomes richer when highlights and texture are added to create a finished product that will be treasured throughout the ages. Who are we to say when the painting is finished?
Breathing
Wendy tentatively begins; pushing off from the wall she focuses her eyes down, and after a brief glide in a stiff streamlined position, takes her first stroke. Catch the water, pull down, slide the hand past the hip, turn the head, and breathe . . . She stops after only a few strokes, pushes her hands down, plants her feet on the pool bottom, shoves her wet hair out of her face, and fists clenched says, “I just can’t breathe!”
A mother is taught breathing to help her cope with labor so when her body is shuddering, sweat rolling down the side of her face, distended belly taught with the body’s natural birthing rhythm, and her only thought is “I can’t do this,” the calm assurance of hee-hee-hoooo, hee-hee-hoooo carries her through the pain. The newborn infant fresh from its mother’s womb, is hung upside down in the arms of the doctor, wet, gray, covered in mucus, and awakened to the world with a sharp slap on the bottom and a single command, “breathe.”
A yoga instructor coaches her students on relaxation techniques, “breathe innnnnnn, and breathe outtttt, breathe innnnnn and breathe outtttt,” to enable them to bend a little farther, hold the pose a little longer, and help them to focus and synergize.
Hold your breath you can stop hiccups, breathe too rapidly and hyperventilate and pass. We don’t have to be reminded how or when to breathe, it is an innate function our body performs to keep us alive. Amazingly, it regulates itself, providing the oxygen necessary to sleep peacefully or to work aggressively, but there are still times when I just can’t breathe.
Breathing
Shuffling, swaying back and forth, moving toward the edge of the pool, Tammy’s weight is a burden. Finding brief relief buried in the cool waters of the pool, her yellow shirt with the huge black smiley face is a direct contradiction to her pain. She loops a small pouch around the pool railing within easy reach, it contains her “breath of life.” With a cross-country ski motion she progresses through the water, heart racing, lungs constricting, her breath forced in and out, in and out. Her question for the lifeguard is, “Where is the best place for me to be in case I pass out?” A fit of coughing might cause her lungs to constrict even more, stopping her airway, leading to unconsciousness. Resting on her back, a small island half submerged, gentle waves lapping at her side, her eyes closed, a little used smile rising from her lips, this is freedom, and she is willing to risk drowning for these moments.
Fear
Lisa had a near drowning experience when she was young. She stepped into water over her head and it was several long moments before someone pulled her out. She was done with swimming. She passed her fear on to her children, nervously hovering when they were near the water, pulling them out of the water if they inhaled a little water, coughing and sputtering, making sure their faces stayed dry. I don’t remember when or how I learned to swim, but for me swimming is natural, exhilarating, freeing, and fun. My children were a few months old when I introduced them to swimming, swishing them through the water, gliding them under the surface, gently blowing in their face to teach them to hold their breath, laughing, splashing, and playing. My friendship with Lisa gradually led to trust, and a desire to help reduce her choking fear of the water, a terror causing her to feel the water closing over her head, the oxygen seeping out of her lungs, and a desperate panic to protect herself and her children. Eventually, her children learned to relax, flip under the water like otters, stroke confidently to the other side of the pool, and Lisa found more security in facing her fear. Allowing her children to learn to swim brought more comfort then her ever constant vigilance.
Diligence
Heaving, pulling, crawling, kicking, trudging, head out of the water, struggling lap after lap all for a mile a day. A mile a day and a hundred pounds lighter. A mile a day, but still Teresa has another hundred pounds left to lose. Some days she has enough strength to pull herself up the ladder: tightly gripping the pool rails, pulling with her arms, pushing with her feet, painful, slow step after painful, slow step. Other days she collapses back into the pool, floundering for a moment, forced to find another way out. Crawling over twelve lane lines and across the shallow end of the pool she will have to navigate the stairs. Resting on each stair, legs shaking with the effort, she hauls herself out of the water. Weary from the exertion her downcast eyes lift in triumph as she passes a friend and says, “A mile a day.”
Faithful
Wayne used to bring Donna to the pool every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning, first walking beside her bantering back and forth good naturedly, squirting the lifeguard with a small blue whale as they passed. Later, she needed his arm to steady her; he enjoyed her hand tucked in his giving him the chance to hold her in this small way. Eventually, a wheel chair carried her to the edge of the pool, she struggled into the handicap chair lift, and a turn of the lever gently swung her out over the water and down into the therapy pool. The days went on, marked by a pattern getting more difficult to follow. All too soon, Wayne came alone bringing Donna in his heart. He had surgery before she died, and the long, red, rough scar that runs the length of his chest is a visual reminder of his broken heart. It’s been almost a year; his wounds are beginning to heal and the scar beginning to fade.
Awareness 2
Observant, diligent, eyes sweeping side to side, always aware. Aware of the child slipping into the pool while his mother turns to tuck a small red toy truck taken into her oversized rainbow patterned swim bag. Aware of teenagers playing breath holding games, breathing in and out to expand their lungs, sinking to the pool bottom, anchoring their hands to the wall, trying to outlast each other, and ignorant of this games potential lethality. Aware of the excitement in the air for the first warm days of summer that are spent around this shimmering oasis: pristine water, inviting, beaconing, belying the inherent danger. I watch unnoticed, an invisible lifeguard, only materializing when a forced whistle blast and a quick command correct a patrons course of behavior. From my vantage point I gain deeper perspective and understanding as mini life dramas are played all about me.
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