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)

Hapa Helps Me Celebrate

I think I'm going to take a day off from writing and celebrate.  (Wait, wait, wait, why am I writing? hmmm...)

I had a final swim clinic workout today and got some positive feedback on my breaststroke work from that wacky swim coach putting us all through various paces.  That would be Monsieur Temple, here from the hockey-loving nation to our north.  Lucky us.  For a change, I put a few lengths together to the point that he noticed an improvement.  That was pretty gratifying.  Too bad it was on the very last day, and I'll have to go back to my usual swim time to continue fitness improvement.  But, I'll take the compliment; they don't come that often.

Age-group swimmers (adolescents) were zooming back and forth in the first four lanes and we oldsters in the other four.  Then, those groups were subdivided by ability (fitness and coordination) or by stroke.  Most of the oldsters are freestylers, but a couple of us were working on "strokes."  I do breaststroke better than the other strokes.  Of course, I had to kick with the bucket and then pull with various other implements of evil (paddles, tubes, pull buoy).  There are all sorts of things that have been dreamed up by diabolical demons (coaches) to emphasize the areas of the stroke that need special focus.  For me, it's timing and strength.  When is it ever NOT timing and strength, right?  (swimmers are all rolling their eyes and nodding heads yes).

Two other things:  First, I bought a new CD by Hapa called Surf Madness, after having been on Kauai in December and hearing a cut from it that I liked a lot.  The song sounds grand and celebratory to me.  The other is that I am sitting here looking out at gathering clouds and feel the air cooling down.  Rain is possible tomorrow, but so what, right?  Here's why I don't care:  I'm playing Hawaiian slack key music and getting in a Hawaiian groove, and I'm happy I put in the time to get fit again and do some bucket drills in the predawn hours since that's what it takes sometimes.  Check out Hapa, the cut called He'eia, and channel some ancient Hawaiian power.  Pretty cool.  (I saw this group play ten years ago and have been keeping an eye on their music, always feel it has a special energy and reach.  Hapa, by the way, means half in in Hawaiian.  One guy's haole and the other is Hawaiian, both talented and worth a listen.)

Swim Clinic: Making Friends With Buckets

Last week of swim clinic.  In the pool at 5:30 in the morning.  50 degrees was on the verge of pleasant for early morning pre-dawn; the pool is about 80 degrees.  Once you're in and moving, there's no problem.  Well, that is until you strap on buckets and start dragging them around the pool.  

The bucket is the swimmer's equivalent of a parachute.  The lovely feeling of moving forward in the clear blue water is instantly gone and you are reduced to hamster status.  Humility is a big part of bucket hauling, I've learned.  But, I have made progress.  I've learned that when I'm pulling my dear darling bucket up and back I can imagine how good it's going to feel to go bucket-less in a little whileVery good.  And that's the point.  If you've been focusing  (my biggest challenge in swimming) on the stroke technique the coach has been yelling about up there on the deck, your arms will feel long and strong once the bucket is taken off.

So, okay, it's a white paint bucket, the kind you can buy for a couple of bucks at Home Depot.  You wear a webbing strap around your waist and a buckle or clamp to hold the strap around your waist.  Then, the bucket is attached to a long nylon rope that's attached to your waist belt, and the bucket trails off behind you in the water as you swim.  The buckets are different sizes.  Strong swimmers with lots of experience use big buckets.  Swimmers like me, new to buckets, use smaller ones.  I keep hoping for a coffee mug back there.  It's low tech and very effective.  It slows you way down, makes you feel every little movement of your arms, hands and shoulders.

To get going forward, you have to focus and think.  There are all sorts of cues coaches come up with for how the water is supposed to feel on your arms and all over you as you apply proper technique.  Swimming is all feel.  A coach will say, "High elbows!" or "Early forearm!" or (my personal favorite) "Forget about breathing!"  Counterintuitively, you have to both not think and focus very precisely on your stroke.  If you think too much, you're toast.  If you fail to focus on aspects of your stroke and get mentally lost in space, you may as well be sitting on the deck.  Actually, it would be better to sit on the deck in that case because most likely you are reinforcing old bad habits like slipping elbows, uneven kick, bad head position and on and on.

Swimming is infamously challenging in the same way a golf swing is.  One tiny loss of flow in a golf swing spells slice or hook and you're in the rough, the trees or a water hazard.  Oops.

So, the bucket has to be your friend if you are going to get more efficient and stronger in the water.  Even though swimming looks entirely physical, it is almost all mental.  When you finally have a good day and the whole thing clicks, enjoy it.  And stop thinking about it so you can feel it.  Remember, forget about breathing.  And focus.  Oh yeah, swim fast, too.

Feeling the Pressure: The Focus of Swimming

I've been learning how to swim all over again these past two weeks.

When you walk around your town, you're not usually too aware of how you move through the air.  It's only when it's windy that you feel it.  During any swimming motion, water is moving around you, and you have to become aware of how it's moving.  As I am paying closer attention to water and my body as I move around in the pool, I am thinking about water pressure and my hands and arms. Without pressure, you don't go forward.  

A long time ago, I was told to take a look at a good swimmer stroking from one end of a pool to the other and notice this:  They seemed to stick their arm into the water out in front of themselves and the hand extended out there stayed put while the body moved to it, over it, and past it.  I thought it was an optical illusion at first, but it's true.  The swimmer's body was moving so well in the water that it actually moved past the point where his hand entered while the hand stayed in that one spot the whole time.

Anyway, a swimmer has to have a very certain focus on how the water pressure feels at all times.  For me, keeping my mind on what I want my hands and arms to feel is sometimes a lot like herding cats.  I think about a million other things when I swim and have to keep bringing my mind back on track.  When I get my mind in the game and really zero in on the sensation of pressure on my palms, forearms and head, it feels great.  Then, I feel like I'm flying.

Dawn to the Pool

Up at 5 AM for morning swim.  Got my get-ready routine down pat:  Up, dress, fill water bottle, eat small snack, begin to stretch and limber up, gather bag and keys, drive to campus.  Walk over to pool, enter dark cold locker room, leave warm clothes in locker (feeling urge to scream), get in pool.  Yeah, that's it.  Swim, of course.  

Oddly, or not, crackers and raisins are doing the best as a snack before the workout, washed down with water. I'm happy to say I'm still discovering little things like that even now after so many years of swimming.  

Quote of the day from coach:  "Your butterfly looks fine; nothing wrong that a few million laps of butterfly won't cure."

Sigh.  

Best part of swim:  Dawn at the end of the workout.  It's a magical moment that makes you feel both crazy and very privileged.  You've done something challenging, gotten yourself into a position to be able to see one of the greatest free shows available to mankind, and you're nicely relaxed from the exercise.  That is one very specific groove.

A New Dawn: 5:30 Swim Today

In a vein of self-discovery - or rediscovery, which would be more accurate - I got up at 5 and drove over to the college for the 5:30 AM workout.  I hadn't made the effort to get going before dawn in about six or seven years, maybe more.  It felt strangely exciting to do again.  I guess that's a good sign.

The sky is black at 5:15 and it was very cold for our neck of the woods.  36 degrees.  The edges of frost were beginning to cut at living things, put some real teeth into the night.

A pool at 5:30 with the air at 36 degrees looks haunted.  Steam whisps and whorls were rising from the boiler room, the deck and the pool itself.  Two tall light standards flood the area with just enough light, dark enough to focus attention on the pool and swimming.  The locker room is not heated.  That's where it gets a teeny bit challenging.

The water is 79 or 80 degrees, like having Hawaii in the middle of cold winter.  As soon as you jump into the water, you're good.  The coaches, left on deck bundled in parkas and layers of clothes, are the ones who suffer.  That would be Mark Temple and Mary Hazdovac, coaches of Monterey Bay Swim Club.

What I found as I swam was that I felt really good.  I was enjoying the water, the movement, the rhythm of the various strokes.  Moving up and down the lane was much different than in daytime when everything and everyone distracts me from my stroke.  In the dark of predawn, I barely saw the other swimmers in other lanes.  They seemed like phantoms.  I only saw trails of silvery bubbles whirling from the turbulence of their kicking feet or stroking arms.  A flash of an arm whose skin was lit by the beaming light, undulating bodies in the far lanes doing butterfly or turning at the wall to reverse back to the other end.  Quick looks at merpeople, swimmers moving at 6 AM in the wintertime dark.

With nearly all my visual input reduced to my own lane of water and the darkened underwater view of the bottom below me dim and uninteresting, my mind focused easily on the work at hand.  Today, the focus was on pulling drills using drag buckets that emphasize the smoothness of the entire stroke, the symmetry of the pull and recovery.  When you take the bucket off, you feel fast and powerful.  Tomorrow, I won't be feeling so fast.  I'll be feeling sore.  My muscles will adjust, but it's going to take awhile.

By the time the workout ended at 7 AM, dawn was beginning to creep over the far horizon and Venus was dimming in the southern sky, a bright beacon that winked at me.  "Good morning, old girl," I said.  "We're up early, you and I."  The morning light growing in the east was like stage lights coming up on a play.  A sense of anticipation and possibility filled me.  It was simple, beautiful, quiet and I'd missed it all those years.

The showers were hot and breakfast was very satisfying.  I'm still thinking about possible swims, places to travel and challenges for myself.  A dawn morning in winter is an inspiring thing.

There's A Bear On My Back, And He's Carrying A Piano

First week back in the water after winter break feels good, but I'm not so sure I look so great thrashing up and down the pool.  I'm glad I can't see myself.  Feeling out of shape is bad enough. It takes about two weeks, maybe three, to regain fitness for every week taken off, which seems to go against all the laws of physics and nature, but that's the way it is.  Take a break, pay for it later.

The pool is an old one and needs replacement.  Eight lanes, 25 yards, deep at one end.  That's it.  The poor old thing was damaged in the Loma Prieta earthquake that occurred in 1989.  Coaches and pool equipment bounced up and down for the 18 seconds or so that the earth rumbled, and patches of plaster and tiles were chipped and crunched.  They have not yet been fully repaired in all this time.  The college campus has been enjoying a gradual refurbishment over the past few years.  Unfortunately the pool is almost the last bit of the college to be replaced or upgraded.  The locker rooms are grim and cold, but we are not complaining too loudly.  We get to swim; that's the main thing.

The phrase "swim" is very subjective, I've found.  Swimmers at our pool range from floppers who barely move and somehow take up an entire lane all by themselves to fitness hounds who cross train in other sports every day, rain or shine, to swimmers heading to Junior Olympics and beyond.

There are no shortage of goals to work toward, and the amazing thing is muscles respond to stress by getting stronger no matter how old you are.  I have set a few personal goals for the first six months, and even after just one week, I feel less like a bear has jumped on my back and more like I am actually getting somewhere.  The bear is always ready to jump on, and sometimes he's carrying a piano.  If you're not a swimmer, equate that to running uphill in loose sand.  Swimmers know exactly what I mean and dread the feeling when it comes over them.  

As for competition, I don't know what will turn up on the horizon, but I'm looking around for something interesting to challenge myself with.  Hawaii?  Maybe.  California?  More likely.  But...that's the fun of it.  Swimmers comprise a big tribe and they swim in lots of different places and kinds of water.  If you know of a moderate open-water swim, drop me a line and I'll take it into consideration.  One possibility I've toyed with is an open-water series in Fiji that I read about online.  Who knows....

A To-Do Day And Then Tah Dah!

It was a jiggedy day today whose middle was filled with errands and to-dos but it ended in a grand "tah dah!"  It was made of many stepping-stone parts that formed a satisfying whole.  Mondays are often like that; they seem to flop into big chairs and slump with a feeling of "whew, now that was something," like Sunday took all the good things and left junk behind.

First, I swam with friends, back in the pool again finally after a two-week holiday break. Fitness has slipped and I need lots of hours of work to get back in shape.  I had lunch at The Breakfast Club in Seaside where a waitress who was petite, wiry and looked like a roller derby player brought me an enormous plate of salad and a bowl of soup.  It was almost as big as she was.  I saw her staggering along with it and the other plates of food she brought to us.  She needed a U-Haul truck for goodness sake.

Gabriel the New, grand-nephew of minute proportions, age five months, gazed upon his world philosophically until he was handed a big shiny teaspoon.  While I and two loved ones ate our massive lunches, his eyes fixed upon a teaspoon and both hands grasped it with the strength of ten monkeys.  Into his mouth it went, sure as sunrise, for evaluation.  He gummed everything he could find while we talked and caught up on news.  After some good-luck kisses on his soft cheeks, he and his mom said good-bye, to meet again in a week or two.  He is handsome already, and it is assured that girls will find him irresistible, but he will not know they exist, I'll bet.  We shall see.  He has to get out of diapers first.

Friends and errands took up bits and chunks of time until I realized sunset was nearly upon me.  There are many dramatic vistas on our local shores, and today's very low tide produced unusual features of rock, exposed seaweed and stampeding breakers backlit by the setting sun.  Every day, cars and bicycles migrate to the western shore, assembling along Sunset Drive and at Asilomar State Beach.  Clumps of people stand along the walking path or sit in their parked cars to witness the inexorable slow descent of the sun to the horizon and its tatters of gold shredded across the sky.  I don't know how they feel exactly, but in my mind there is music and the Almighty is present in a grand and commanding display.

Flying While Swimming

A simple truth:  Your mind flies while you swim.  Those who don't like to swim laps believe it's the most boring thing in the world, but they're missing out on a remarkable experience.

In a pool, your body is essentially inside a big container, but your mind moves far beyond its boundaries, set free by the rhythm and motion of your arms and pattern of your breathing.

The coach on deck sets you off, but it's up to you to keep track of your laps and pay heed to pace and tempo.  If you've swum enough, your body settles into autodrive, and your mind is free to travel.  Of course there is a downside:  You lose track of the number of laps you've swum if you don't pay enough attention to it.  In the best swims, you keep track peripherally of your lap count, the way you're swimming.  It's very much like driving a car.  You pay just enough attention to the road and signage to keep yourself safe, but you're thinking about things a thousand miles away at the very same moment.   I've heard of some swimmers who worked on math problems, imagined conversations with friends, composed music, and others who escape to a place where they feel heroic and immortal.  Hardly ever do you notice the bottom of the pool with its wide black stripe below you.  Instead, you fly weightlessly.

Yoga teaches that rhythmic breathing, disciplined movement and mild exertion create mindfulness.  It's a meditation, a release of the mind and creative imagination that at the same time relaxes and reintegrates your body, mind and spirit.  Feeling yourself moving with the currents and pressure of the water, held afloat, sensing the resistance of still, calm water on your hands and arms as you stroke, focuses your mind initially on the task at hand.  But, as you settle into a pace, you may find yourself listening to a song, making plans for dinner, driving to Colorado, or flying to Paris.  Why not?  Anything's possible in the mind, especially when the body is busy at a repetitive movement like freestyle.

There is a balance to strike between being lost in thought and putting out physical effort.  Many times, especially for swimmers struggling to make an interval (finish the set of laps before they have to start again), the physical effort dominates the experience.  Once you find a balanced state, relaxed and aware yet detached and free, no container can hold you.  Who knows, you may find yourself anywhere in the universe, where time doesn't matter anymore.  

Making the Transition

I kick off the covers, roll to my side and sit up, feel every joint and muscle begin a chorus of complaints.  When I stand up, which is more a slow-motion conflict between gravity and body parts trying to resist, a memory of a long-ago yoga class slithers through my mind and exits with a dark look at my lumpy physique.  Oh, things have changed.

One little insistent memory cell sings out the word:  Coffee.  I respond with automatic shuffling to the kitchen and find the pot.  Coffee, darling coffee, lovely coffee.  I love thee and thy dark heart.  I am smiling now.

After more automatic movements, I find myself in the bathroom dressing.  A look in the mirror is, shall we say, unfortunate.  I have to look away.  The mirror trembles but remains whole, thank god.  

More coffee.  I am moving more smoothly now, but not much.

My swim bag finds its way to my hand as do my keys and a few necessities for errands.  Out the door into the bracing cool foggy air of Pacific Grove.  I feel like I need my goggles on in this cold thick atmosphere.  It is not the kind of weather where your mind shouts, "Let's go for a swim!" Nuh uh.

My mind is shouting, "More coffee!"  It will have to wait now.  I'm driving across town, and the car knows the way, has known it for more than ten years.

Okay, body, out of the car.  Hey, I''m having an out-of-car experience, I joke to myself weakly.  I blame it on the cold fog, the time of day.  I hoist the swim bag and walk.  I feel like a homing pigeon, looking for the bird seed, the familiar roost.  Instead I am a landlubbing swimmer looking for my pool.

I find myself with toes curled over the edge of the old pool.  One friend has already begun her laps with her peculiar weed-whacker stroke pattern; she swims hard but it is not pretty.  Other friends emerge from the locker room and eye the rectangle of chlorinated liquid before them.  It's obvious the pool is a kind of respected adversary to most, a thing to be overcome.  To me, it's just wet.  I am going to have to get wet, and at first it will be cool on my neck and my back, and that is not appealing to me.

I think - peculiarly - only a half hour ago I was stumbling around in the privacy of my own home, not thinking of getting into a wet environment at all, and now I am.  How quickly things change in an hour.

The hardest part of getting in is, well, getting in.  Another friend gets into the pool by easing her thin body very, very slowly down into the water with a look of extreme discomfort etched on her face.  I turn away, unable to watch the slow, painful-looking process continue.

Okay, pool, it's time.  Well, maybe not...

There is always a point when I have stopped mentally drifting around and run out of resistance to the idea of getting wet and just finally get the hell into the water.  I have seen hundreds of swimmers, maybe thousands, look the same way I do.  It's the approach, the staring at the water and the other swimmers moving around in there, contemplating nothing in particular, but then the settling in of the idea of a swim.  All that seems more uncomfortable than you might imagine for someone like me who loves to swim.

Then, on no cue that I can ever recall, I just jump in.  I'm in, I'm swimming, and that's the end of the agony.  And the beginning of another kind...

The Possibility of Success

Today at the end of my workout at the pool, the biggest fastest guy remarked about the set we'd just swum:  "I went ten on the one-fifteen interval today.*  I used to do a hundred 100s on 1:15 when I was really fit."

Ten thousand yards of freestyle in one long set is a lot to do.  Swimmers know this.  So, our eyes bugged a little since we'd only just done eight or ten 100s, depending on our send-off interval,* and we were feeling like that had been plenty.

Someone near me said, "I didn't know if I really wanted to try a harder interval today," and we all pretty much agreed, nodding, mumbling about Monday morning, tired after busy weekend, head not in it today, etc.

Big Fast Guy said, "Well, you can try and you might fail.  But, you can try and you might succeed."

Those kinds of words spoken from a guy who has just shown you their heels for an hour, and who is now smiling at everyone with the attitude of a winner who is actually encouraging everyone by example sink in extra deeply and make you feel like your excuses are, well, just excuses and that you have quite a bit more to offer if you take up the challenge.

I thought over other incidents in life when I'd felt self-doubt and gotten all tangled up in my own excuses only to feel the whoosh of someone passing me by, ignoring their own excuses entirely.  There you are, knocked head over heels into the weeds by someone who has made a different choice than you have, even though you actually wanted to make the other choice, the attempt-to-succeed choice, but you had diddled around and doubted yourself.

I like to watch sports and especially go bonkers over the Olympics when they come 'round every four years.  In spite of the fact that there are tremendous commercial trappings surrounding sports, at the core of sport is the athlete who says, "I could try and I might fail, but I could try and I might succeed."

Where do you see that in "real life?" Spirit, attitude, je ne sais quoi - the little something extra in people that's different, elevated.  It sparks the air, changes the equation and things pop.

We in the pool this morning were all willing in certain ways, willing to get to the pool, jump in and swim together.  We all know each other, feel familiar with how each of us swims and are usually pretty satisfied with just that.  When someone adds an extra spark, the pace changes.  Big Fast Guy could have been yelling and shouting and he would not have had half the impact he did when his quiet true words floated up over our heads at the end of the hour:  I could try and fail or I could try and I might succeed.

(*Swimmers do "sets" of a given number of laps and "send off" on a given time interval.  ex:  Ten 100s on 1:15 means you do four laps every minute and fifteen seconds ten times.  If you want any rest, you finish the four laps before the next "send-off" time.  You start, swim four laps, finish in less than 1:15, and when the second hand on the timing clock gets to the 1:15 mark, you start again, and so on. Seconds feel like big chunks of time when you swim.  A competitive swimmer knows their aerobic send-off time, which is the time they know they can do the given number of laps repeatedly for a long time.)

Thoughts on Community and Loneliness

"Anybody out there?"

I recently had a conversation with a few friends about community, and the question seemed to perplex us:  Where is it exactly?

What do we need a community to be in order to even recognize that it exists?

I swim at a local pool each weekday, something I've done for years.  I've become familiar with the routine at the pool, recognize people, know what I'm supposed to do and not do there.  More than any other place, I consider the people who come and go every morning to be part of my community, but even that is a very loosely structured concept; there is one common goal of maintaining fitness, but we do not engage in each other's lives much beyond that.  A lot of what I understand about my pool community has to do with choice.  I choose to go swim and so do all the other people there.  We find enjoyment and benefit from gathering there.

On the other hand, I also work eight-hour shifts with coworkers eight days out of 14.  That's a lot of time, but I don't feel nearly as interested in defining that place as a community as I do the pool.  The hours I am scheduled to work are not my choice.  The work I do is defined by someone else, and rules are externally applied and enforced.

I also write and seek out writers in an attempt to form a community of sorts, although the community at this point exists almost entirely in virtual space, online.  I choose to write, I enjoy it, but I do not have a physical space in which I meet other writers and write together or speak to one another casually.

So, the question comes up:  Do I have a group of friends or a community?

It's very common to feel lonely, isolated and left out in modern America, which I find incredibly ironic considering our affluence, mobility and freedoms.  It's my opinion that ideas that die for lack of interest represent a huge loss for us all, and they die because those with ideas have no community in which to share.  In addition, the wisdom to be gained by recounting adventures and undertakings often is limited or lost because adventurers have no community that will listen to what they've learned.

My swimming friends say they go to the pool to see who's there, catch up on each other.  They miss it when they're away for any length of time greater than a week or so.  We know each other's strengths, weaknesses, gauge each other's progress or health.  We accept whoever shows up, make room for them. People come, take part, leave.  This may be as close as we modern Americans will ever be to the idealized "village" of yesteryear.  But, what else do we need for it to be a community, really?

Journey Begun: Visionary Hero

There is a friend of mine with a wonderful vision that is calling him forward on a journey that he finds irresistible but, at times, intensely difficult:  "It's like pushing a snowball up an active volcano."

He is Mark Temple, a Canadian swim coach of some renown in his country but little known outside of it except to swimming cognoscenti.  Having coached dozens of Canadian Olympians in his career, he has mastered his craft and loves it.  He is dynamic, knowledgable and passionate about all things aquatic.  Now he intends to bring the world of swimming as he knows it (think Michael Phelps) to this beautiful area where he now lives.

I've been writing recently about relating personal transformation and effort to The Hero's Journey, so eloquently delineated by Joseph Campbell.  Mark, energetic visionary that he is, has embarked on a new journey, and his progress is easily paralleled with the classic monomyth.  Dragons, monsters, difficult stony paths await any hero who embarks on a difficult path, no matter how great their vision or sense of purpose.  It's never easy, but then again great effort produces great results for those who undertake the journey wisely.  

There is also a tidy model that describes what Mark has done so far:  V x D x F > R  This model was taught to the attendees of the Chautauqua at Mt. Madonna last July.  V stands for vision.  The individual or entity must have a strong vision of what they would like to accomplish, or a new idea.  D stands for dissatisfaction.  There must be a strong enough dissatisfaction with things as they are to motivate the person to undergo effort to make the change occur.  F stands for first steps, which must be done to initiate change.  All of these must occur before R, resistance, can be overcome.  All of them must be greater than the resistance to the change envisioned for the action to succeed.

Often, impulsively, we take first steps but have no vision; we're just mad about something.  We don't get very far.  Or, we have a vision but falter and no steps are taken.  Resistance to change cannot be overcome and the idea fails.

Mark Temple has a very strong vision, based on experience in several very successful coaching experiences, of building an international aquatics center at Cal State University at Monterey Bay (CSUMB).  He sees the potential and relates it to teaching children water safety, hosting international training sessions for swimming, water polo, synchronized swimming, diving, masters swimming, and providing a beautiful aquatics facility to serve our community.  It fills a void and creates a wonderful potential in many ways.

Mark has worked in effective aquatics programs before, has seen incredible centers used by people of all ages, and has enjoyed what the Monterey Peninsula already offers to golfers and dazzled admirers of nature.

First steps have been taken.  Monterey Peninsula Swim Association Foundation has been formed.  People are becoming curious, interested, involved.  They are being asked to take the journey with him; he is putting out the call.

The journey for Mark Temple has begun.  He has to get the snowball up the volcano, but his vision will hold him in good stead.  Vision and energy are things he has in abundance, but he will still encounter obstacles, frustration and pitfalls.  It's the nature of taking a journey.  He believes in the worth of the effort.  He intends to bring home a treasure, and when he does he return, he will be changed, for the journey always changes the hero.

Cold Swim With Braised Chicken

Heavy, dripping fog hid any sun around here for miles inland early this morning.  Swimming felt rough, a real challenge.  Lots of bodies in the lanes creating circling currents induces fatigue more quickly.  But, we were all in the same tub, so to speak, and felt an esprit de corps I like about sports.  After an hour and a half, the fun was done, so we wobbled indoors to the showers.  No hot water, again.  Definitely none at all.  

A long swim in "rough seas" and a cold shower will put your mind in search of warmth and comfort, which I found at Trader Joe's in Monterey.  A newish store to the downtown area, this market shares parking space with Peet's Coffee & Tea as well as RJ Burgers and Pharmaca pharmacy.  Parking sharks circle like the real denizens of the deep during prime-time shopping hours.  The TJ's in Monterey had to begin opening at 8 AM instead of 9 when people complained about congestion in the lot.

One day, when I had made the mistake of attempting to find a parking spot in the middle of a Saturday morning, it was very close to impossible to find a spot.  A woman had walked into the lot from somewhere else and was standing in an open spot waiting for her friend to arrive from somewhere else downtown.  She tried to stand me off when I was pulling in, but I got into it with her and she relented.  I am not usually confrontational, but the stakes were high that day, so I had to yell.

Today, it was much more peaceful.  Sharks were trolling somewhere else or not awake yet.  Still feeling the chill of the shower and my appetite waking up with a roar, I zeroed in on some organic chicken legs, spices and herbs and, of course, the free food samples.

Handouts are something I really treasure in life.  Why not?  I have gotten lots of good ideas through sampling.  I love altruistic behavior, especially when good free stuff ends up in my hand or stomach.

Hot Sumatra coffee was a fine cold-shower antidote.  Not so much the fresh peach cube-ettes and yogurt, but it took the roar in my stomach down a few decibels.  I said thank-you (remembering what my momma taught me) to the sample preparer, although she still looked half asleep and a little sketchy using a sharp knife on the peaches.

At home again, chicken braised in oil and onions with herbs coating all possible surfaces perfumed the air in no time.  Slow roasting brought flavors to a peak.  I enjoyed every morsel, and felt warmed through and through.

Recipe:

1 yellow onion
1 head garlic
parts of one chicken or enough pieces to fill 9 x 13 in pan
basil
fennel
salt & pepper
saffron if you have it.  Fine without it.

Dice onion into 1/4 " cubes, set aside.  Heat safflower and/or olive oil in pan until it wriggles around but doesn't smoke.  Wash and pat dry chicken pieces.  Brown on medium heat, turning to prevent sticking.  Sprinkle 3-4 Tbsp herbs over contents of pan as chicken cooks.  Add onions after chicken is half browned.  Braise until browned and onion is semi-soft.  Salt and pepper liberally to taste.  Lay chicken pieces in baking dish and pour juices and onion over it evenly.  Cut tips off garlic cloves, leaving head intact.  Coat with oil by pouring small amount over head of garlic while it sits in one corner of pan with chicken or put in garlic roaster if you have one (soak lid in water first for 10 minutes).  Bake all uncovered in oven for about an hour at 325.  Serve hot or cold.  Garlic will become soft and can be squeezed out and used in aioli (sorry, no recipe here today) or eaten with chicken and french bread baguette.

Early Morning Swim - Ouch

One eye cracks open.  It appears to be dawn.  Coulda sworn I just went to sleep.  The eye closes again.  I hear coffee getting started in the kitchen.  I might have a chance at verticalness if only I can get both eyes open and move some part of my body.  Not happening.  Breathe and try again, I tell myself.

The same eye reopens.  Both eyes attempt focus, fail.  Need glasses, grope for glasses, find them.  Odds are against me being able to get arms and legs going; they are arguing hard against the idea.  They know deep in their bones what is ahead of me.  That is, day four of a new semester of competitive swim workouts at the local community college, and I am far from being fit.  Very far.  

You'd think the idea of jumping into a pool early in the morning would put me off, but no.  Somewhere inside of me is a kernel of determination. The difficulty lies in the summoning of energy, and trying to find enough of it in order to move from lying to standing.  It seems like a ridiculously huge task.  Oh my, am I sore and stiff.  It feels like I have to reach out all over the bed, gather up energy that leaked out of me during my sleep and stuff it back into my body so I can move again.  Like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz groping around for his straw after the flying monkeys tore him to bits.  

I get myself to stand up out of bed.  It feels like a monumental achievement, standing up.  Before standing, I have to convince myself that it's going to be a better idea to heave up out of bed than it is to lie sprawled and comfortable, horizontal to the world.  This takes some real negotiation.  The deal is that if I will move really slowly now in exchange for a nap later, I can remain standing and get on with what's next.  Odd parts of my legs, shoulders and arms are popping, making funny little noises.  I am Rice Crispies in human form.  Just add milk? Coffee will be better.

I restarted swimming this week and have been working out harder than I have for a long time.  As a result, muscles and joints are saying no when my mind says go.  The wags say misery loves company, and I take solace in that.  At the pool, I find satisfaction in hearing about my friends' sore muscles and tired bodies.  At least it's not just me feeling tired and shot.  Knowing that they'll be at the pool again today helps.  We'll suffer together and compare stories about traffic getting to the pool, the cold weather, our knotted and tired muscles.  

The theory is that you get in better shape when you work out regularly.  Experience tells me it's going to be about three weeks before I feel human again.  Experience is a good thing, but you really ought to learn from it right from the start.  I knew that taking off a few weeks in May was going to cost me in lost fitness and aches and pains when I started back up again.   I'm about as trashed as I've ever been.  The coach is relentless, murderous, sick.  She laughs at our struggling bodies floundering in the pool every day, doles out no pity whatsoever.   

The coffee is a pleasure to sip.  I kind of stare at the morning paper, read and reread a couple of paragraphs five times, instantly forgetting what I've just read.  A little bit of granola; I'm trying to be good and not think about Pavel's cinnamon rolls, which on a good day I can smell from my front porch when I go outside in the morning.  I feel my body sagging in the chair, hoping to return to bed, feeling pathetic, beginning to whimper, but I also feel my memory stirring up images of being fit and capable.  

My gym bag is waiting for me by the door and the clock is saying go swim, go swim, go swim.  All right, all right, I'll go, my mind is made up.  It's more important to me to go than to stay, so I go.   

Tomorrow, day five.  I can do this.  I just need a massage really badly.  Owww.  

  

From the Oahu Coast Back to The Groove

The Manoa Valley was stormy and windy, with rain coming down in pattering showers all night and a cool 67 degrees.  I set off for Honolulu early in the morning to explore for a little while before turning my car in and then going to the airport.

First of all, I had to have my cuppa Joe, so I tried out Great Harvest Bakery in the financial district, right across the street from the Hawaii Electric Company along a narrow lane.  The bakery is a cheery place that gives out large samples of their loaves, sells scones, sweet rolls and other delectables as well as coffee to go or eat in.  There are only four stools that line the window, and the counter is decorated with painted tin pots stuffed with bright pink cosmos daisies.  Baked goods were voted "Best Bread" in 2008 by the Honolulu Advertiser readers.  I think I agree, although Manoa's bakery around behind the Safeway store is running a close race with them.  Both require determined searching.

The air was filled with whisping, backlighted drizzles and rainbows arched across the sky.  Clouds were scudding overhead and sheets of gray rain in the distance over by Diamond Head looked dark, cold, wintry.  Scooting along the Ala Moana Boulevard, I decided to explore the large park that goes by the same name.  Its right across from gigantic Ala Moana Shopping Center, the country's largest outdoor mall.

The park is very large and part of it juts out beyond the boat harbor.  Joggers and walkers were out in number, as were a few locals fishing off the rocks and bantering in pidgin.  I needed to walk after my scone and cappucino, so I joined in the flow of energetic people getting their morning constitutional.  The city was to my right and Waikiki was way off to my left, as was the again-approaching storm.  No one looked to be deterred by the oncoming shower and the air temperature was warming actually.  Shirtsleeves and sandals were fine.  I think the looping course that took me along the perimeter of the main part of the park was about a mile around, maybe a bit less, all flat.  The views of the city were really nice; I appreciated the new vantage point.

I found the local swimmin' hole, a much better place than Queen's Beach for serious swimmers; Ala Moana is much more protected, much bigger and is lined by a very mildly sloping beach.  Next trip, I'll be in there.  Surprisingly, I never got in the water once the whole week, save a little ankle-sloshing walk once or twice.

My walk finished just before the shower hit.  I drove back to town and said a fond farewell to the cute little Mini Cooper that had been a zippy conveyance for my explorations.  The convertible top was useful on warmer, slower days.  I rented it from Little Hawaii car rentals, by the way.

It was very difficult to say good-bye to Oahu and its people.  I really hated to go for many reasons.  I'll go back; I'll return many times.  The ocean is so big there and so alluring.  The island seems simply to be a hopscotch point for those of us who are so often in a water-sport-loving groove.  Now I'm back in Pacific Grove and curious to see what comes next.  I'll let you know.

Raising the White Flag

I've been watching spandexed bodies flying, spinning, flipping, running, skating, and flashing by so fast I can't see them unless I see it all again in slow-mo.  I am held willing captive by my television, white flag held high, taken prisoner by the scenes before my eyes.  It happens to me every Olympics, this surrender.  This is bad.  I have yielded heart and soul to the fantasy of Olympic endeavor even though I know it is a representation of only the most elite, most talented and gifted athletes the world has to offer in an arena created at extreme expense, leaving out the vast majority of humankind who also strive and compete.  But, then again, maybe they aren't left out.  Not totally.


It's true I've never come close and never will come close to being an elite athlete, but I need to know that those flying-squirrel ski jumpers are out there gently floating down long slopes to settle lightly and gracefully as you please 140 meters from liftoff.  I need to see a girl readying herself on a pair of skis before she slides down, and then up, and then way up into the cold sky where she does turns, tumbles, flips, and somersaults and lands again back on earth.  I need to see two people dancing with impeccable grace and flair on razor sharp skates to a cacophony of corny music and see them look effortless and fine.  I need to see an icy toboggan chute that barely contains a heavy sled with four muscular men crouching down, slashing downhill at 90 miles an hour.  


I need to witness it all that because I believe it's impossible to do those things.  I need to see the huge cauldron of fire set alight after a million-mile relay all around the country because I am small.  I am small, and I have attempted to live a good life, and my life has been safe.  I live in a small town where a few of our citizens can run pretty well or swing a golf club respectably, but from which no one has really distinguished themselves to Olympian heights.  


I swim and I think of Olympic swimmers who seem to have some ungodly ability to accelerate from an already insane pace.  I run and I think of diminutive Kenyan runners with the lungs of a whale who are so fleet that 26.2 miles is the same to them as my 1 or 2 miles are to me.  I ride my bike up Forest Avenue and I think of Tour de France riders storming up the slopes of Mt. Ventoux in France, a severe and horrible climb created by Lucifer himself.  


I need inspiration and hope and all my heroes, every one of them.  They are the gifted angels who fly among us, tapping us on the shoulder, nudging us to give it another shot, try again, go a little harder next time.  They have bitten off more than anyone should chew, swallowed it and grown up to be nearly immortal.   



Their movements are beautiful and they make it all look so very easy, so simple.  The simplicity is deceptive, but this is good.  A simple deception is beguiling and alluring, tempts us to believe that if we really do give it one more shot, maybe we'll do better, overcome a bit of adversity, prevail somehow.  The coolest part of it all is that when you believe you have the possibility of prevailing, beating the odds, sometimes you actually do.  


I will keep watching the Games, fascinated by the wild abandon represented in each arena, the attainment of rarefied glory because I need to.  I know this is a very specific groove, probably the most stirring and exciting one around.  However, you think this is bad, you should see me when July comes along and the Tour de France commences.  I'm gonna be soooo gone then, and happily so.  I surrender!  

Winter Sound

I was thinking about a demonstration of sound editing in films I saw once.  A man wearing a trench coat, a fedora and wingtip shoes was walking along a wet sidewalk.  Leaves lay in loose piles in the gutters, and the colors were of muted tones. The man was looking straight ahead as he walked, and he was moving steadily without deviating to right or left.  His hands were in his pockets.  There was a total absence of sound.

Then, the scene was shown again, but a lilting, sweet song was playing. The mood changed. Here, you thought, was a happy man, perhaps in love, certainly content with life.  It seemed delightful, light and inviting.

The scene played one more time, but this time the sound track was a low, minor-key chord played on cellos and basses with a rising anxious intensity.  Perhaps the man was being followed by a killer or he was angry and violent.  He seemed in imminent danger and dreadfully vulnerable to unseen forces.


I thought about sound today because the day was so gray and color so subdued.  The absence of visual interest shifted my attention to my ears and what they were telling me.  I decided to be "blind" while I walked and thought of the famous ability of people like Ray Charles, Andrea Bocelli and Stevie Wonder to mitigate the loss of vision with wonderfully increased auditory acuity. 

I walked only for a few hundred feet (glancing up to keep my bearings and laughing at my clumsiness) in a rain-soaked environment. Water noises were everywhere.  I thought about the way our minds monitor what we hear, "filing," in a way, the ordinariness of most of them, but still alert for subtle clues that might signal an important change that could be dangerous or interesting to us.  The variety of sounds that indicated the movement of water in the world around me was infinite and virtually indescribable except by a few adjectives we always turn to:  Swish, splash, gurgle, drip, plink, and roar.  Most of the sounds today were tiny and subtle, notable in their infinite variety and exquisite detail, all very surely the sounds made by large and small portions of liquid, moving or being moved. 

I thought about what babies hear in the womb and how the voices and sounds outside, in the room, give them a preliminary introduction to the world to come.  It has been shown that the sound of a beating heart played to a fussy infant will quiet them very quickly.

I listened to the sounds around the pool as I swam later, and knew that visual clues were serving to edit the sounds in my mind.  My arms moving through the water made a very similar sound to that of oar blades pulling through a still lake surface.  If I had been able to focus on listening only to the sound - played in a darkened room for instance - I would probably have been unable to tell what thing was making the gurgling sound.

I remembered the sound of the storm-swept ocean last week and the way the waves sounded as they steamed across the bay:  A variable swishing crescendo that culminated in a booming rumble and then the clatter and crash of rocks rolling up and down the slumped cliff rubble.  The swish was the same as you hear when very fast swimmers race in a pool.  Slower swimmers and slower waves create a different quality of sound, so by just listening to the quality of the noise, you can tell the quality of the swimmer.

I've thought about what perfect pitch might be like for those gifted with it.  I think the cacophony of sounds that are off key must be annoying.  Some musicians have been known to be so intolerant of a poorly tuned piano, or guitar, that they were simply unable to use it.  I don't have perfect pitch, but I have enjoyed good hearing and being able to listen to beautiful sounds; being able to do so has been one of the greatest gifts of my life. 

Today is a visually unlovely one, but the brilliant shadings of noise, even in their tiniest dimension, are everywhere to be heard and appreciated.  At this time of year when the light is low and air cold, tune up your hearing a bit and notice what you're surrounded by.  It's a refreshing alternative that can be very uplifting when sunshine has gone missing for so long.

Swimmin' in the Rain

I swam with friends today who told stories of hailstones on the ground the size of walnuts, of wind tearing branches off trees and the kinds of whoppers that bring dimension and thrill to the otherwise steady grind of getting along with the weather in the wintertime.

A friend has two dogs, both small, and one is young and silly, a puppy.  "She's only five pounds, a little Chihuahua mix, not a Husky. She's afraid to go outside, and I don't blame her. There were potted plants flying around the patio. Just think if she went out - she'd be flying around, too."  Except for certain damage to the dog, that idea has appeal to me.

It was in the mid 40s at swim time, no heater in the locker room and no one wanted to brave the dash from there to the pool much.  It's the only bad part about swimming on a day wrapped in cold wind, delivered with rain and overcast.  The strategy is to get your stuff ready, yell and complain about it with your friends, and then all of you burst out of the locker room at once, run for the pool and jump in, which is what we did. 

Our swim coach is a tough cookie:  "People always complain about having to swim in the rain.  What are they afraid of, getting wet?"  No.  That'd be a fear of lightning, I believe.  "I'll let you know if I see lightning.  If it looks like it's getting close, I'll make you get out."  I thought of all of us caught in the pool by a slamming jolt of lightning.  The only comfort -- and not one that I'd ever be able to relate to a friend later -- was that I would certainly die doing something I loved. 

We were in the middle of the workout, resting briefly at the wall when we heard a low rumble.  The Monterey Airport is nearby and a friend confidently stated the rumble was a jet taking off.  It's possible.  About a 50-50 chance of lightning vs jet, and the sound is easily confused.  I was thinking lightning, not jet, was making the sound, and I felt a bit uneasy, but not uneasy enough to stop and get out.   

Shortly after the rumble stopped, rain - big ice-cube-cold rain slanting down hard - was stabbing our arms and pinging off our swim caps.  We kept on and felt crazy, but swimmers pride themselves on things like that.  Most fringe-sport athletes do.  Rugby players, cross-country skiiers, that kind of athlete.  We are not a pampered and spoiled lot.  We do crazy things like swim in heavy downpours, hail, freezing cold.  Why just sit on the couch when the alternative was so strange and fun? 

Now the rain is coming straight down, stitching lines of water from the even, silver gray of heaven to the dark earth below.  Rivulets are flowing down the street and everywhere is gurgling, splatting, pattering rain.