The Swimmer

I’m 55. I never learnt to swim properly. Britain maybe a great island but I lived inland about as far from the edges where the land and sea meet. It was the 1980s and you were forced to ‘do swimming’ in the local leisure centre. My shyness ripened in the communal changing areas; not a great start for fun. Then, the walk through the foot wash, out onto the poolside. Nostrils flaring from the smell of strong chlorine. 

I never really learnt to swim. I learnt how to paddle with panic from one side to the other of the ‘baby’ pool. I hated getting my face wet or being splashed. I tried my best to keep my hair dry. 

Whether driven by overconfidence or sadism, our swim tutor decided we would jump in the deep end of the ‘big’ pool. At that time, refusal was not a thing. Sensitivity was not a thing. 

So I jumped in. And dropped down and bounced up but with panic I took in water and went under twice more. I stretched my arms and found the side of the pool. Safety. I looked up and the tutor was laughing and flirting with the lifeguard, oblivious of my experience. 

And that was it for me. I stopped learning, sure that I was not suited to the pastime. 

Until 25th July 2023.