While I was torturing Tucker with sprinkler water today my neighbor was sitting in his backyard with one of those little blow up pools for his little girl, and she was splashing and having a grand old time. I think water is most fun when you’re little or if you’re a dog. It certainly seems to make both of them more hyper, anyway. I started thinking about my excursions in my little swimming pool during the summer as a child, and also about how embarrassingly long it took me to learn to swim. This is the part where I thank my mother for being more determined than me.
My mom can’t swim, and knowing intimately the fear that accompanies that inability she was unwavering in her decision that we all would know how to swim. My siblings picked it up with ease after one summer spent in lessons. I, however, hated the water and treated it like it was out to kill me or maim me or at very least make me very uncomfortable. I went through a summer of group lessons followed by three summers of private lessons before I would even put my head under the water. I hated the splashing (I still hate splashing), I hated getting water in my ears (still hate that too) and up my nose (that’s the worst!) and generally hated getting my head wet. I would even panic in the shower. You may think I haven’t improved much since then, but now I know I can wear earplugs and nose plugs and a swimming cap and I definitely like showers… I’m sure I look ridiculous when I swim now, but at least I can.
I remember a private lesson when I was little. I must have been fairly young because I remember being in the baby pool where it can’t be more than two feet at the deepest spot. It was always disturbingly warmer than the rest of the pool. I was fine with that until I figured out that urine was the likely culprit. Anyway, my swim teacher was trying to get me to put my head under the water (pee water!), so she would have me pick up rings from the bottom. I got the first rings with no issues – I solved the problem of putting my head under water by just locating the ring with my foot and tilting my head to the side to avoid submersion.
Then she put a ring over the drain at the deepest part of the pool.
While it’s not that deep, my little arms and legs were too short to use my head-tilt method of picking up the ring. I strained as hard as I could, but I couldn’t even touch it.
The swim teacher thought she had me now. “Go ahead, get the ring,” she encouraged, like I’m some sort of dog who will just do what she tells me to. No. I had a better idea.
And that was how it went for six weeks. I think finally they just shoved me under the water out of frustration on the last day, but by then it was too late to make any real progress. I would be back three more years until I finally willingly put my head under water. Then it was two more years of kick boards and trying to learn to float without paralyzing fear. Finally, my mom pulled all the stops and enrolled me in a private class my elementary art teacher taught at his house.
I did learn to swim that year and I overcame my fear of water, but I’m pretty sure I developed claustrophobia in its place.
It was toward the end of our lessons and our teacher put us all along the length of the pool with me at the deep end and we were to swim to the other side while our parents watched. I was proud of this placement because it meant he trusted me to swim across and not die. I was also conveniently placed across from the ladder, which was a landmark the two kids to my right did not fail to notice.
He blew his whistle or told us to go or something, and we all froggy dived into the pool and started our best freestyle toward the other side. And this is what happened.
The sun was useless, in case you were wondering. Also, it's a bad idea to panic and open your mouth under water.
I eventually resurfaced and clawed my way out from the side of the pool since the ladder was apparently so popular. I then sputtered for a while and then turned the full force of my glare at them.
I did show that I could swim that day, but as a result I have an irrational fear in any situation where I feel like I can’t breathe. I can always breathe just fine, mind you, but I’m usually positive I’m about to die, especially in crowded elevators. I was probably destined to inherit it from my father anyway, but this incident pretty much guaranteed that I would be claustrophobic.
Thanks a lot, meanie heads at the pool.
