Dreading Water

My view moments after entering the pool to practice treading water | Photo by David Baker on Unsplash

I’m not ashamed to admit it. I’m a terrible swimmer. You know how they say you can drown in four inches of water? I think I could get it down to one.

It’s been this way since childhood. When I was a kid playing Marco Polo and it was my turn to tag the other swimmers, there’d have to be special rules. I got to stand in the shallow end, keep my eyes open, and swing a ten-foot rescue pole. I still lost.

That was assuming I got in the pool in the first place. I often didn’t. Whenever I tried, the lifeguards exchanged looks of worry. Were the searchlights operational? Was the helicopter equipped for search and rescue? Were the maritime authorities willing to help after last time? Everyone thought that if I got in, I might drift out to sea (if that could be done from a neighborhood pool, I would find a way), and wash up years later on a distant shore.

Once as I was about to jump in, a lifeguard pulled me by the water-wing, put something in my hand and said:

“Here. Take this bottle. There’s a love note to my girlfriend in it.”

I think he was serious.

The trouble was, I never learned any technique. The water in our high school swimming pool was dangerously cold, too cold for any serious practice. You didn’t dive into the water as so much as walk out onto it.

One day, while changing for gym class, and feeling wary about taking the icy bath, I overheard two coaches arguing over whether to force me in.

“The man must plunge into the brine!”

“But he has no mastery of the swim! He'll descend to Davy Jones' Locker and meet his doom.”

“Aye, your words hold truth.”

(This was right after I’d taken a test on Moby Dick.)

Occasionally, I could will myself into the icy pool through a combination of positive self-talk, gritty determination, and a forceful shove. The shove was at the hands of swim coaches who had to record the time it took for each student to cross the pool. On each of these occasions, as I began my paddle, the timer would pocket her stopwatch, sit, and—this from a person who later became a motivational speaker—pull out a book. As you might guess, I lacked the confidence to make it across. But I did set a record for being the only person ever to get lost between two lane lines.

Still, it wasn’t all bad. I did have one triumph. Near the end of senior year, I managed to cross the entire length of the pool, and in a time I didn’t think possible. The coaches cheered. The other swimmers applauded. Even the timer congratulated me:

“Great job, John! Next time you’ll do it without the noodle.”

Someday I’d like to learn to swim. They say it’s great exercise. But I think the closest I’ll ever get to a swimmer’s body will be swimmer’s ear.