Swimming
The Downtown YMCA. Lunchtime. Judges, stockbrokers and computer repair guys all roll in to take out their frustrations. Everyone has their favorite routine. I swim.

I remember learning how to swim in a public pool, taking lessons with my older sister, T. Years later I found out she hated the experience. To me it was magical, like someone was letting me in on a great secret--how to move through the water gracefully and efficiently.

I remember blowing bubbles and learning to turn my head to breathe. Just rotate you head, not your entire body. Kick your legs, pull with your arms; I was entranced. After I learned the basics, there was no deep end I feared or distance I wouldn't go.

The Y's pool is old. It has only 4 lanes and is 23 yards long. 44 laps equal 1 mile. Down and back is a lap. Even though the lanes are limited, arrive just before the lunch crowd and it's usually okay.

I jump in, knifing down and pushing off the pool bottom. Adjust goggles, set the watch and start...1, 2, 3. I break up the laps into 4 groups of ten.

Maybe it's because swimming reminds me of summer and my grandfather's place (that's where we were when I took lessons). So all tied up with it are memories of moss-draped trees, warm nights hiding and seeking in his huge, lush yard, watermelon and truck rides through the woods. And I especially remember swimming in Blue Springs, where cold clear water bubbled up from forty feet below and the cave entrance, visible from the limestone ledges, lurked menacingly. Much later, I would don my SCUBA gear and enter that cave, exploring the great room and the five passageways leading off to further, more dangerous locales. One shaft led straight down into darkness. I didn't follow it.

The first 10 laps go easy; breathing becomes measured and the strokes automatic. The mind relaxes as the body toils. Swimming is all about endurance, being able to stretch out your arm again and again and pull it through the resistance of the water. It's also about not fighting the water but gliding through it. Surrender to the water; embrace the liquid environment you are passing through.

I reach 20 laps. The arms now feel heavy but the pace is steady. Fatigue is the enemy of a good stroke. Weariness causes sloppiness in the water. The mind wanders. Where's my second wind?

After learning how to swim, I was lucky enough to get to participate in swim teams. Swimming is really an individual sport. Whatever noise is there on the starting block disappears once you hit the water. Then, there's no other sound but the rush of water and your breaths. No teammate can save you in an individual race. There are no chance hops and bounces. It's just you. How hard can you push? How much pain can you stand? How long, as the race nears the end, can you bury your head and pull, ignoring your lungs screaming for air? What are you capable of doing? No one else can answer that question.

After high school, I no longer swam competitively. I still swam though. In pools at universities, gyms, and, when I was a lifeguard, out in the Gulf of Mexico. I swam with sea turtles (Caretta caretta), manatees (Trichechus manatos ), sharks (Ginglymostoma cirratum), barracudas (Sphyraena barracuda) and jack crevalle (Caranx hippos). Once, while out past the second sandbar, I came across a school of jack crevalle. They were moseying down the island in a loose-knit group of about half a dozen. They seemed somewhat amused to encounter this air-breathing land dweller, so obviously not suited to their environment. I looked at them, silvery nomads heading to points beyond my reach. It was a moment I'll never forget. You get to see things like that if you venture out past the shore's safe edge; if you are not afraid to swim in deep waters.

After lap 30, my mind returns to the business at hand. I become mindful that my time in the water is drawing to an end. As lap 40 approaches, I push, like a sprinter at the end of a run. The last 4 laps are leisurely, a warm down. I'm now thinking about leaving this pool and its solace and returning to the world of telephones and faxes. The faint smell of chlorine lingers in my nose for the rest of the day, reminding me of who I am.