My first day of swimming lessons

Right now, I am training for my first triathlon, which essentially means, I force myself to hop into a pool three days a week to practice swimming. So far, swimming has proved to be the bane of my existence, the neglected step child compared to the bicycling and running siblings. This lack of enthusiasm for swimming traces all the way back to the first frayed threads of childhood memory. As a little tow-headed girl, I refused to get into the water unless my mother securely placed me on her hip, my pale summer legs wrapped around her body, looking to fuse my skin with hers in the name of safety. Honestly, I couldn’t figure out what the big deal was with these adults and other children. They remained obsessed with the idea of my submersion into the clear blue pool water. Personally, I felt completely at ease watching the sun bounce off of the ripples in the water from my perch on the edge of the pool. I enjoyed swinging my feet in large arches under the water, focusing all of my attention on the top of my feet and how the water slipped right through my toes. Why mess with a good thing? Still, by the time I reached the age of 5 or 6, my mom decided enough was enough and broached the subject of swimming lessons with me. She masked her surprise well, as if she had expected such fluid acquiescence all along, when I immediately shrugged my shoulders agreed to go.
The lessons were to take place at our neighbor’s house in their backyard pool. Mom gathered up all of the necessary supplies, towel, sun block, etc., placing each item into the canary yellow beach tote with a sense of pride for attacking this little quirk of mine head on, no more messing around with the constant coaxing at pool parties. We were about to get down to business. I put on my swimsuit with little fanfare. We walked together around the block, mother and daughter in picture-perfect summertime mode, passing neatly clipped lawns and bright summer flower beds. When we approached the neighbor’s big brown house, we followed the shaded path along the side of the garage which led around to the back of the house. The pool sat in the middle of the back yard, huge oak trees looming gracefully above, filtering the sunlight through their leaves. I looked up to the bright blue sky and filled my lungs with excited anticipation. I can remember thinking, “This is going to be neat.” I have a tendency to let my surroundings and their perceived beauty sweep me away in imaginative story lines. This particular story featured me sitting on a chair, cross-legged, chatting with a new best friend in the sunshine while we flipped through our new books together and checked out each other's swim suits. While I daydreamed, the rest of the students and mothers waited on the porch as last minute sun block applications filled the air with coconut and banana breezes.
When the instructor/friendly neighbor emerged from her walk out basement door and introduced herself, I was flabbergasted when she chirped, “Ok, let’s all get in the pool!”
WHAT! I whipped my head around and locked eyes with my mom. We have to get in the pool I silently screamed at her! Alarm bells clanged, sending vibrating waves of panic across my body. That is not what I agreed to. I said I would go to swimming LESSONS, not swim-ing. “You didn’t tell me I would have to get in the water!” I screeched indignantly. Confused, she patiently bent down and in a soft voice and explained that when you take swimming lessons you do, in fact, need to get in to the water. “How did you think you were going to learn to swim?” she asked me gently, knowing all had gone too smoothly before.
“I thought we’d get out a book!” I cried. This seemed so obvious to me, like the sky being blue and Gina Samson from school being mean, and like my mom keeping me, her youngest daughter safe. At age 6, I believed, you want to learn something, you crack a book. I mean, didn’t this woman, my mother, teach me that exact lesson again and again, like that annoying top 20 song on the radio that you end up humming to yourself all day long? Want to learn how to sew? Get a book and follow a pattern. What to bake a triple layer German Chocolate cake? Get a book and whip one up. Need to figure out how to fix that leaky faucet in your bathroom? Head to the library find the home repair manual, then hit the hardware store and get that darn thing fixed. Why should swimming be any different? Shouldn’t we at least start out with some diagrams or something? Hopping right in without first cracking a book seemed as reckless as jumping out of a plane without first double checking the rip cord on your parachute.
After some persuading, I did get into the pool that day. I must have slipped into that water in a haze of bewilderment, wondering what shifted in my little world to produce this situation. The belief that all can be learned from a book is still with me today, for better or worse. That is precisely how I am learning to swim for this triathlon. I checked out a book, followed the diagrams and got in the pool. I still can’t decide if I like it too much, but the book says to stick with it for at least 4 months, so I will, because that is what my mom would do.