I Knew I Needed To Be Fierce…

There is something so evolutionary satisfying about cutting through water. Slicing the molecules with an elongated reach and pull. Encased. Cocooned. Buoyed by water. A physical freedom unlike anything else. Joyfully unburdened by gravity. Swimming. Each swim in our family pool felt nearly as special as my very first…

 But today it was my turn. Three years old. Young I was. No formal children’s classes offered. I learned to swim with adult women.  

 We went to the Y often, but this time was different. Lessons had been completed by both my mom and me. Today was test day. Could I swim independently from the small end to the deep? Would I need assistance or stop for breaks?

I had done the work. Disciplined and focused.  I loved to swim.  Determined that I would not be sequestered in the shallow end of our family pool resolve pulsed through my body. The deep end represented independence. Freedom was just one lap away…

 Without hesitation I jumped into the small end. Quickly tilting my small body into position for the lap of a lifetime. Slicing through the water with choppy strokes. My head above the chlorine filled water while my little legs kicked like they never had before.

 I knew that once I left the shallow end the test would truly begin. No fatiguing or stopping by the edge. This lap must be completed. One shot. One opportunity. Fierce, I needed to be.

 Once grammar school ended, I couldn’t wait to get outside and trot down the square cement walk to our pool. Early morning swims. Quiet. No other swimmers to navigate around. Neighborhood friends and families yet to arrive. Lazy summer days were filled with outdoor exercise…

The back yard slopped downward towards the pond. The grass harsh under unprotected feet. Our many acres mowed but not manicured. Country living. The inground pool sat next to our ranch style house. A grand apple tree perfect for climbing was lost for the cause. The spot perfect for cool mornings and full sun by afternoon.

A foot bucket was placed at the top of the shallow-end stairs. Fresh cold well water filled from the outdoor spicket. Daily. Ankles ached upon first dip. Soon transformed into tepid bath water under the sun’s influence. A short walk down the shallow end stairs of which there were three.

Freshly painted aqua blue. Spring scraping and painting had been completed as were the many days it took to refill the pool annually. Opening weekend was always Memorial Day. The water insufferably cold. With great want and anticipation my brother and I braved it. Shivers, chattering teeth and blue lips were all the signs of an unfolding pool season. The water, crystal.

My father’s diligence in maintenance glistened. The smell of pool chemicals wafted off the treated water on warm summer air. Stillness settled over our rural oasis. A fastidious hygiene. Skimming, brushing the bottom and vacuuming the pool was routine. Emptying the skimmer basket where wayward frogs would sip their last drop. Unceremoniously dumping their small rigid bodies over the chain link fence was also required each day.

We all shared the responsibility, but my father managed the running of the pool like our family business. Every detail exquisitely attended to. He never accepted anything below a standard of excellence. School grades included. The same zeal as cleaning the grocery store was also employed at our greatest source of recreation. The Tremont Street snack bar, the meat and dairy cases were steam cleaned. Warm fogged moisture rose off all surfaces. Scorching and scouring. No germ stood a chance. Our home was no exception. I assumed everyone cleaned like that…

We resided in the middle of expansive fields. Corn fields for dairy farm livestock consumption. Bliss Dairy. Next door was a retired chicken farm where my mom had grown up. Destroyed in the hurricane of 1938 and only remnants of the odd brick and cracked cement foundations remained. Modest homes. Single car families. The pool was the neighborhood’s summer sanctuary…

Down the shell shaped corner stairs for the initial lap. Slowly I allowed the shock of cold to inch up my small body. My mid-section always the most resistant to the idea. An impulsive dunk to end the discomfort was always the answer. A quick peek at the underwater world that I cherished before popping up. The only way to do it.

Walking across the pool floor in four feet deep water. I was not much taller. I would take my usual position along the low-end wall. Passing through my brother’s “lane” which was always reserved for him. Standing as my body rested against the cement wall while taking in the moment before getting into position. Engaging the force of my legs as I bent my knees. I would shoot up to plunge down as I lifted my feet to push off the end.

The sound of the blub blub blub of the water. Like geese in flight bubbles forcefully fell into formation. The glide. The exquisite glide forward before my right hand stretched long in front of me and reached just a stretch further and then even further. The smell of chlorine filled my nostrils. Freedom and solitude with every stroke…

Form and technique always a focus. Some laps were strong and forceful while others were a more leisurely crawl. Breaststroke and butterfly intermixed. I loved it…

At some point and with each swim I would take a moment to float. To simply be. My small left hip rose and sank with the subtle movement of the water in the deep end. An equal and opposite reaction occurred on my right side. Rhythmically floating on top of sparkling-clear water while my eyes were blissfully closed in response to the penetrating and unrelenting summer sun…

Bathing caps were required when I first learned to swim. The 60’s where long hair was reported to be problematic for pool filters, as we were instructed. According to my dad. Plain white nonporous rubber caps with a chin strap fastened closed. The world became instantly muffled. To place it on one’s head was an art. Scrunching it up and starting with your forehead while pulling the cap back snuggly up and over your hair. Tucking in the defiant strands also resisting the confinement. The forehead became imprinted with the ridged interior boarder and a headache would ensue. Blood flow bottled and capped.

However, my mother’s cap was stylishly adorned with bold colored flowers. Cad orange and yellow petals off to one side. The glamour of Esther Williams influenced our rural setting. By summer’s end a petal or two was lost to the cause.

Early years we had to wear them but as the defiance of the 60’s reached our country road the caps were remanded to the pool bin with golf balls for diving, snorkel masks and fins. Yet, it seemed to apply to only women since by the early seventies as my brother and his friends with shoulder length hair received a typical exception. Apparently even strands of hair understood gender inequity.

Jean cutoffs replaced teenage boys bathing trunks much to my father’s disapproval as the fringe just signified a revolt from what seemed inherently wrong to him. He wore a tie and suit jacket daily…

Baby oil. Double albums wrapped in aluminum foil. A virtual skin cancer breeding ground but my best friend Kathy and I looked good. At least from the neck up. Teenage years poolside combing lemon juice through our brown hair eager for those “natural” highlights while we chatted about all important confidences.

First bathing suits were one piece.  Navy tank with an imitation belt fashioned on my lower abdomen. Red, white and blue. A photo of my siblings and I lined up by birth order on the diving board. My bathing cap flaps flipped up for the picture. A hint. A glimpse of my pixie haircut. Haircut by mom. Smiles across the board. Literally. Donna, Bob and Liz…

The diving board top glittered like diamond dust but the surface, sandpaper. One moved quickly to spring off the end. A dive or a cannonball. Swimmers’ choice.

The diving board had a short shelf life when a neighbor down the street jumped off a pool cabana and hit the unforgiving cement bottom rendering himself paralyzed for life. A neighborhood of kids quickly advancing into their teenage years panicked my father and the diving board was one day gone.

The pool light that glowed romantic during night swims was also disconnected because he had learned of an electrocution in an underground pool somewhere in the United States. He felt our safety was at risk. Dad said there was such an incident, but I sometimes think he just became worried about mixing water and electricity…

The pool most summer days was filled with friends and families. The women of the neighborhood accompanied by their children contributed snacks and conversation. Mom was the voice of the pool yard rules. The authority that would render you a seat on the sidelines for running near the pool. “Monkeying around” had confines. A safe experience was valued, and no one challenged her authority. No one was ever hurt either. She taught most of the kids I grew up with how to swim and I suspect a mom or two after hours.

A reprieve from the demands of their lives with shared female friendship. Each house different. Struggles were certain. Kinship and comradery. A bond of sisters. Confidences shared over Rice Krispies treats and lemonade. Toweled children with bloodshot eyes impatiently snacking while the water awaited their anticipated return…

Mom basked in the sun. She loved to lie on her chaise lounge. Bain de Soleil tanning crème applied. Orange gelee. Her English skin would bronze beautifully. Her hazel eyes would occasionally rest from the vigil she kept. I always wondered where her thoughts went.

Snacks. Before breakfast mom had the day underway and in progress. For us? Yes. For the neighbors? Of course. For her? I hope so. Our outdoor beige push button phone was plugged into an exterior outlet. Resting on a painted off-white heavy metal stand. Convenient as the dash to the house to answer a call seldom worked. The sound of her sandals on the cement surface still clicks along in my recessed memory.

The last summer we had her before pancreatic cancer stole her, she rested on her favorite lounge. A different quiet when one is fighting to live. On her side I would see her lay. Her body involuntarily shedding pounds. Wasting. Her frame buckling under the weight of illness. Exhausted by the futile chemo treatments. Eyes closed but no relief on her face. I like to imagine that she rested with the comfort of our voices enveloping her.

 My effort was certain. Loud cheers propelled me on. My mother’s voice floated across the mist for my ears only. They walked along the pool’s edge in unison with my solo effort. They wanted me to succeed. Each stroke embraced their belief. I felt empowered and supported. I pounded forward. One arm then the next. Soon my small hand would reach for the far wall. I wiped the water from my eyes or possibly tears…

 I had done it