Swimming On (v.1.p.1.)

When it's dark outside early in the morning and the air is very cool, not many of us are more than a few minutes out of dreaming unconsciousness. We recognize each other, one by one, as we arrive, shuffle in and set to work uncovering the pool, pulling back the heavy blue plastic tarps that cover it.

"Look at that moon," says one. No one sees the moon. We don't look; our eyes are still filled with dreams and drifting thoughts of yesterday and perhaps music lines repeating in our minds, leftover from sleep a few minutes before. We figure the moon is up there somewhere; its existence is acknowledged by some memory cell in a deep recess of our brains.

"What temperature's the water?" says another. This is a more relevant thing to us, but since we're dry and not yet ready to approach the pool, we abstract the thought for now. It's a fact that can be dealt with easily, we hope.

"It looks warm," says the the third. We grow silent and mull over the idea of water looking warm or cold and seem to reach the conclusion that we have seen a wisp of steam rising off the pool's surface. There is a steady soft rubbing sound as the pool tarp brushes the pool deck edge as it is being removed. The pool looks impassive and noncommittal today. The lights are coming up to full brightness very slowly. We are grey-on-black figures shuffling about our work uncovering the pool.

"It's 81.5 degrees," says the first. The air itself is 48 degrees, and we are all still in street clothes. Again silence. 81.5 degrees is bearable, even preferable to a warmer temperature when we are working hard in the water, but the initial leap into the new medium which will cover every square inch of skin immediately must be reckoned with in advance. One gets to know every half degree of warmth or coolness when it has been submerged and must maintain homeostasis. A body becomes calibrated to gauge exactly what temperature the water is. We know we will be comfortable in 81.5 degrees but will feel an invigorating coolness at first and will need to keep moving without too much rest between sets of work. When the water is warmer, we will need to stand up out of the water to keep our core temperature down. Overheating becomes a problem when a hard set is undertaken in too-warm water. 84 degrees or hotter is just too uncomfortable, too relaxing, to be able to get a workout done properly.

"Did anyone see that guy on TV who fell through the ice in that river?"

"No. What? Someone fell in? Where?"

"In Minnesota. Some guy. He fell in. What was he doing out there in the dark early in the morning? Was he crazy?"

The irony of our voices ringing out in the cool darkness raises a laugh, and the banter begins. The poor soul in Minnesota is forgotten for a moment. There is laughter and kidding, more exclamations about cold water and people who live in frozen northern places far away, the way the air feels. The tarps are done, rolled up on their spools, and the rack pushed to the side of the pool house on squealing wheels. Quiet again, we shuffle off to the locker rooms to change into our swim gear, reappearing one by one at the pool's edge where we stand and stare down at the water. Then each of us, compelled by an inner sense of inevitability, encounters 81.5 degrees of wetness. By slow agonizing leveraging of the body into the water or by a quick leap far out over it, we join up with the water and begin to swim.

It always seems like an initiation, an onset of something imperceptible, despite the obvious and visible immersion into water. A body swimming at 5:30 a.m. experiences a duality of existence, relating to its inner fluids and overcoming fear of suffocation by drowning. Air and water become the centers of the universe. Breathe air, the mind says. Inhale and exhale, in and out, as the arms, legs, back, shoulders and hands sense currents and balance through and with water. The whole of life is gradually funneled down to one narrow realm comprised of rhythms. Heart beats, breaths in and out, arms pulling and recovering above the surface, legs kicking, and the starts and stops at the wall. We are of a mind, we swimmers, enveloped in the liquid blue medium that baffles and intrigues us. All of our effort is bent on understanding how we experience movement in water. Sixteen people wet and one dry, the coach who watches, amid the confines of the pool deck and its watery field of play, comprise a dance of sorts.

This is what I discovered when I was 10 years old.

(A beginning point for my story)