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A Late Swimmer
by Janet Penley
When I was young, girls weren't encouraged to be basketball stars or win soccer scholarships. My biggest physical challenges were sleeping on big plastic hair rollers and keeping my knees together while seated in a mini-skirt.
In fact, the only athletic girls in high school were big-shouldered swimmers who swam laps at 6 a.m., dangled nose plugs around their necks and wore sensibly short hair. They were sporty, instead of sexy, or even silly, and therefore, considered socially inferior. Yet, truth be told, their vigor and self-discipline cowed me. Jump into the pool at dawn? Are you kidding? I didn't like the water—too cold, and well, too wet. It dries your skin, turns your hair to straw, and feels like ice cubes on your belly.
But, at age 52, with arthritis settling into my knee and hip, my doctor has prescribed swimming. “It's great cardiovascular and kind to the joints,” she told me. So, for months I thought about it: the shock of frigid water, blue lips, arms hugging my skinny chest. I even thought about buying a wet suit, a little shorty number.
Still, it wasn't just the cold and wet that worried me. I wasn't even sure I could swim. As a girl, I didn't take lessons or learn proper technique. I'd swim until I was ready to burst, choke in air while treading water, and go again. I felt graceless and inept. Just thinking about it made my competent adult ego squirm. In the end, I joined a health club with a four-lane pool and took the plunge.
I pull my red tank suit from the storage box under the bed; buy goggles and a basic black bathing cap by Speedo. The last cap I owned was white with a chin strap and textured to resemble fish scales.
Entering the women's locker room, I think – wow, we've come a long way, baby. This isn't my old P.E. class with girls huddled at their lockers, pulling on gym shorts before removing skirts. Naked women aged 25 to 75 saunter to and fro, slathering on body lotion and weighing themselves on the scale. Their lack of self-consciousness both surprises and delights me. A woman perches on a stool, totally nude, applying makeup. The sensuous curve of her back reminds me of a painting. Then, I can't believe my eyes – I see she has a cell phone wired into her ear. In turns out, she's a real estate agent talking to a client. She says, “If it sounds noisy it's because I'm calling you from the health club.” She doesn't say, “And I'm sitting here like Lady Godiva admiring my rather ample sized breasts in the mirror.”
As I walk down to the pool in my swimsuit, I pass right by the “Please Shower Before You Enter” sign. I don't feel like a shower. I don't like the idea of walking wet through the breezy hallway. I figure the worst they can do is send me back like they did at Bexley pool when I was a kid. We'd splash a few drops of water on the front of our suits to get past the lifeguard sitting at the gate. What good is a shower anyway?
Next to the pool a Jacuzzi foams and churns. The air feels as warm and moist as a greenhouse. In Lane 1, a man tears through the water like a power saw. His chest seems three feet wide and his tiny trunks barely contain his knotted behind. As he does the breaststroke, he pumps a wake. At the edge of the next lane, there's a young woman wearing a tie-dye bathing cap and goggles with holographic bulls eyes. In the third lane, a woman swims the sidestroke, her skirted bathing suit ballooning behind her and her pewter hair still dry and in place. Her presence is encouraging; I bet she wasn't a swim team gal either.
Lane 4 seems to be open. I slither in. Hmmm, the water feels cool, but not jarring. OK. Now what do I do? Do I warm up? Do I use a kick board? I remember someone once telling me to take a breath every time I stroke with my right arm. I push off the sidewall and decide to give it a try. Water gets caught in my throat and nose, and I feel like I am drowning. I remind myself it's only four feet of water and start again.
Just take it easy. Go slow. No one is rating you or judging you. I concentrate on exhaling underwater and clearing my mouth before taking in air. Soon I can swim an entire length, then, two in a row. My lungs fill with pride. When I need to rest, I back float. Lying on top of the water, I watch the white ceiling pipes glide by. The rushing in my ears reminds me of the crashing of the ocean. Oops, my head bumps against the concrete edge. I look around; did anyone see that? Reassured, I begin another lap.
The water dances around my face and smacks against my body like kisses. Its buoyancy cradles me. My ability to move forward while supine feels as novel as a carnival ride. With my head submerged, I enter the peaceful world of H2O. I hear only the sounds of bubbles rising from my nose and the thumping of my heart. I center my attention on breathing in and breathing out, just like when I meditate. Although my arms and legs are paddling, I sink into stillness.
Internally, the constant drone of “I'm dragging, I'm sagging, I'm over the hill ” is interrupted by a news flash: “My body can do something I never thought it could!” Positive energy surges through me like a tonic. I realize my athletic self-image had become as arthritic as my joints. Maybe the mid-life me is a swimmer. At night, hands curled around my pillow, I can still smell the chlorine on my skin.
Since writing this essay, I bought myself a wetsuit. It's black with a short-sleeved zippered top and matching shorts. Now I slip into cold water like a pro. The other lap swimmers may snicker behind my back, but I feel like Lloyd Bridge 's sidekick on Sea Hunt. Yesterday, a woman in the locker room asked me if I was training for a triathlon. As I wiped tears of laughter from my eyes, I began to think – why not? |
