Twenty-five years old
Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings, I’m in the pool by 6:00 am for an intense, hour and fifteen minute workout. Sometimes Saturdays too, when I’m not in Manhattan for the weekend. Although I’m not the fastest swimmer on the Binghamton University Masters Swim Team, my breaststroke and stamina for long distances are brag worthy. With the coach’s help, I’ve improved my freestyle and shaved time off the 50 and 100 yard sprints. Swimming is the best part of my day. If I skip a workout, I go into withdrawal, like it’s a drug.
Five months old
A human infant immersed face down in water automatically holds her breath and flaps her limbs, as if swimming. Scientists call it the bradycardic reflex, a phenomenon similar to the mammalian diving reflex. It lasts about six months, give or take, so I will survive the summer. Mom tosses me in the pool at the Evergreen Apartments. Strangers gasp. They think she’s crazy and I’m a goner. But I love it and swim like a fish.
Five years old
I’m terrified to be in water where my feet don't touch. My brother caught a trout that flopped and sputtered until it died and we ate it. I’m convinced if I loosen my grip on the edge of this pool I’ll suffer a similar fate. Except the eating part, I’m no dummy. But I’m ashamed. If a baby can do it, and not just any baby, but the dolphin child Mom swears she raised, then what’s my problem? I can tie my own shoes and read Green Eggs and Ham but can’t swim. Don’t say can’t. Just put your face in, blow bubbles and let go. Easy for Mom to say—her feet touch. My best friend, Robyn, glides off the wall toward our swim instructor. I scrunch my eyes in tight knots, release one hand and stretch my fingers—reaching for the hand of god, otherwise known as Pat, the swim instructor. Other children churn the water with splashes and kicks. Chlorine stings my nostrils and throat. Pushing off with my feet as hard as I can, I launch myself into the blue abyss.
Image by Foundry Co from Pixabay