SPLASH
by Suzee Seeds
My nearly lifeless body laid on the cruel, unforgiving cement for an eternity, my head crooked to one side as I watched feet of all colors and sizes shuffle past me. I couldn’t move, my arms and legs felt like 100 pound weights. It seemed as though all hope was lost. I could hear scattered laughter and overlapping conversation, as though I was in an Robert Altman film. I felt like an elephant seal rolling back and forth, redistributing my weight, hoping to pull myself a couple more inches forward. This wasn’t exactly how it was suppose to be. The exhaustion was overwhelming, all I had to do was crawl forward, just enough to hoist my leg over the side in one last effort….. at salvaging… what dignity remained… in my attempt to extricate my frail limbs… from the shallow end of the Van Nuys recreational facilities public swimming pool.
A couple days ago, it seemed like such an innocent idea. What was I thinking. Well, there you are, I was thinking. A concept I am still struggling to master. It was a long hot summer, and I thought swimming would to be the perfect sport to get this 57 year old, sagging, menopausal body back in to shape, because after 50, all bets are off and the warranty most certainly wears out. All at once gravity is no longer your friend. I thought swimming was the perfect solution, and it was something I could do well. Heck, at summer camp I competed and even won ribbons, lots of them. I was aqua girl. It would be as if Ester Williams and Lloyd Bridges had a baby and my uncle were Jacque Coustea, I was born to swim.
Before I knew it, I was surfing the web for public pools. I was diving from one internet link to another, like a dolphin skipping in and out of the wake of an ocean tanker traversing it’s way across the open seas. Then I found it, Van Nuys recreational center. It was located close to where I lived with evening hours for adult lap swims. Perfect…, I could go right from work, 2, 3 nights a week, get in 40, 50 laps easy, go home and relax for the rest of the evening.
I already had a suit, just needed goggles and a bathing cap, or I should say……. swim cap. Beware, you’re dating your self using the term “bathing cap”. It will only get you perplexed stares from retail clerks in the department stores, and you can expect tender jibes from your boy friend, like, “Oh, you mean the kind with the daisies on them, honey? I believe that would be in the old ladies section at Rite Aid.” Remember…SWIM CAP.
Next, I went on a search and rescue mission for my “swim” suit which I knew I”d stuffed away somewhere in my chest of drawers, sometime during the Reagan Administration. I finally found it underneath a stack of retired lingerie. You know, the undies that are hanging by a thread, but you keep them because you don’t want to throw them away knowing they’ll just lay in some landfill taking 30 years to decompose, so you stuff them in a plastic bag, telling yourself you’ll find something environmentally useful for them like………
I snatched my little blue one piece suit from its 10 year hibernation and as I gave it a cursory surveillance, making sure it was still in one piece and hadn’t become home to a colony of moths, I realized it was the exact same periwinkle blue as the swim cap I had purchased the day before. Look out Sports Illustrated Swim Suit edition, here I come. Everything was falling in to place. I prayed to Poseidon, Greek God of the sea, to bless my efforts and my suit, to ensure it didn’t disintegrate at first H20 contact.
As I entered the Rec Center the next day, I felt very proud of my decision, almost cocky. I proceeded into the changing room and dawned my perfectly matching swim togs and accessories. I took my back pack up to the counter to check it in.
I adjusted my swim cap one last time and released my new goggles, from their store packaged captivity and nimbly placed them over my head. As I walked out to the pool, I took a glance at myself in the mirror. I was a vision…ready to join the Blue Man Group in Vegas.
The pool was a flurry of men, women and children frolicking in the clear, cool liquid, its ripples sparkling in the suns rays. I spied one of the lap lanes unoccupied and swiftly made haste to claim it. I daintily sat on the edge of the pool and began to gracefully ease my way in when, suddenly… I lost my grip and fell in with great velocity and a splash heard round the world. The chill of the cold water attacked my warm skin like a herd of ice bergs and I let out a yelp. Suddenly all heads cranked in my direction, as if EF Hutton had spoken.
Quickly I ducked underneath the water and immediately pushed off the side of the pool. I seemed to effortlessly lace through the water as I aggressively began my crawl stroke. As the swells of the now tepid water passed over my body I felt my form coming back; good extension of the arms, with slightly cupped palms allowing for optimum pull at each stroke propelling me forward, my legs kicking in an even and steadfast cadence. At the end my first lap I was confident that swimming was the right choice. Now, I bet myself I could do 50 laps or more. Let’s see, it’s 6:00pm now, I could do an hour easy.
6:05pm, I was breathing heavy, having to catch my breath after every few strokes. My arms began to ache. I slowed my pace down and, changed things up, alternating my laps with the breath stroke or side stroke. My style started getting sloppy and I begin hitting the lane divider. At one point I felt my breasts touching the bottom of the pool. Realizing the rest of my body was there along with it, I quickly kicked my way back to the surface.
6:15pm, each lap got longer and longer. My arms felt heavier and heavier, the water seemed to turn to mud. I tried to distract myself from the weariness and found myself counting the number of Sycamore leaves that had fallen to the bottom of the pool, which I could see very clearly, along with the letters, thanks to my new goggles… Wait a minute, letters? I’m seeing letters? I must have been hallucinating. Wait a minute, people who hallucinate hear voices or see flashes of light, but I saw letters, along my peripheral vision. Yes the letters were very clear “r…e….m….o….” I shook my head as I lifted it out of the water and wiped the inside of my goggles, looked under the water again and more letters appeared, “s….w….i”. I was loosing it. I wiped my goggles again, only this time I wiped the outside of them and almost immediately…… the little plastic oval protective covers fell off the lenses, which clearly read, “Remove before swimming.” Relieved I wasn’t on the brink of insanity I plodded on.
6:25pm Shamu is beached on the side of the pool. It felt as though the water had turned to cement and my legs to jello. I couldn’t seem to put two words together. The only sound that elicited from my lips were bubble burps, no doubt from the numerous chlorine chasers I had involuntarily downed. I began to panic, what if I could never move again. I could almost feel my legs shriveling, cavorting in Prunnyville. Who would feed my cats, maybe I could get them moved here? Would the recreational center be able to clean the pool around my helpless body? The parade of feet continue to pass by. It‘s funny how, when you‘re on the brink, how you notice the little things of life, like how many really ugly big toes there are out there.
Suddenly I was lifted up, out of the pool, and out of my delirium. There I was face to face with the most gorgeous brown eyes and chiseled face of what could only be described as a god. Jumping jellyfish, George Clooney has a side job as a lifeguard. As this adonis helped me up, I came to my senses realizing this hunk wasn’t George but certainly the handsomest lifeguard I’d every seen. He asked if I was okay, to which I replied, “never better“, followed by a couple more bubble burps. He helped me to the changing room then suggested I take it easy and rest when I got home.
As I collapsed in to bed that night I felt amazingly accomplished and thoroughly exhausted. I had completed a total of 15 laps, not 50 as I had so enthusiastically predicted. I hadn’t achieved my goal, but, golly guppies, I tried my best. I used to be afraid to try things outside my comfort zone for fear of failure, but I’ve realized the failure would be if I didn’t try at all. Life’s too short not to. Ironically, PBS happened to have a special on synchronized swimming that night. It was amazing. Those young girls train for six hours a day, six days a week. They are so synchronized they move as one. I just felt lucky enough to synchronize myself home that night. Thus ends my first journal entry of Reflections of a Reluctant Mermaid.