WATER

I have always loved water.

From my first memory of bubble baths, running through the sprinkler, our summers at Lake Washington watching the hydro-plane races, looking out the car window of our station wagon, looking out onto the water crossing the "floating bridge," the feeling of the lake water running through my toes and dips in the shallow end on hot summer days.

It was 1956, I was 8 years old.  I still didn't know how to swim.  We had begun a few swimming lessons in the spring, my sister and I.  The water was still ice cold from the winter but we had to start our lessons, regardless.  Shivering, pleas, even tears, did not deter our mom from making us learn to swim.  She had never learned and decided it was time for us to take swimming lessons from friends who lived on the lake.  It was the father of 3 daughters, who had taught them and had offered to teach us now.  He was very strict and was determined to teach us to help our mom.

"Put your face under the water and count how many fingers you see," he said, over and over, until we could open our eyes under water.  That was hard.  At the same time, he would have us hold our breath as long as we could, with our eyes open, the stinging cold, penetrating our eyes, hands and feet.

Freezing, shivering and holding fast to my body, I ran quickly to a small towel waiting on the beach just feet away.  We repeated these things for the next few lessons and after several weeks, began to tread water.  Barely.  All in the shallow end of the lake.

When summer came around, a girl friend's family invited me to go to their lake house for the weekend, but I was invited conditionally and only if I could swim.  I told her I could.  I swore I could.  I was so proud at eight and wanted the priviledge of going away with my friend and her family.  This was so special to me.

Our first day at the lake we picnicked on the beach, towels spread, lunch served; a beautiful sunny day.  We were made to wait a full hour after eating before going into the lake.  That was so disappointing and seemed to take forever.  We feared the painful cramps so remained patient.

Finally it was OK to go in and we played in the shallow end for a while, when my friend said, "Let's swim out to the raft and dive off into the lake like the bigger kids!"  It looked like so much fun but I was scared to try it. She pleaded with me to just try it, just once and that I would love it if I did.

I began walking out toward the raft, sand squishy under my feet, feeling it sink a little deeper and deeper with each step.  I stopped.  The raft was still so far out there and I felt fear slice through me as I realized there was no way I could make it that far.  I couldn't really swim yet.  But I told her I could.  She reminded me of this and beseeched me to join her on the raft. 

Holding onto the stairs of the raft she held out her hand for me to reach her and she would help me up.  I heard her voice calling me, over and over again to just come a little bit father and she would help me the rest of the way.  It only seemed a few feet away but it was more like 8-10 feet away from where I stood, up to my neck in the water.  I, wanting so much to join her and the other kids , all encouraging me to swim out just a little further to join them on the raft.

Where did I acquire such pride at the age of 8?  Why was I willing to risk it and take that next surprising step towards the raft?  I did.  And, I sank as I stepped deeper into the drop off beneath my feet, sinking a few feet that felt like a bottoming out of the ground where seconds ago, was anchoring my feet to solid ground.

I was under the water, scrambling to get back up to the surface and tread the water as I had recently learned or was just beginning to learn.  My eyes were wide open, I could even see my friend on the stairs ahead, calling to me, reaching for me.  I sank again, watching the bubbles in the water as I was helplessly sinking deeper.  One more time I tried as much as I could, frantically to reach the surface, for the third and final time.

I felt all the strength leave my arms and legs at once as I gulped for air, taking in the gritty taste of the lake water into my mouth.  I swallowed it and then some more.  I watched, still fully conscious as I was sinking deeper under the water, calm now.

The next thing I remember was waking up on the beach, the terrible pain in my throat and chest as I coughed for so long, dizzy, weak, confused and then so embarassed as I saw the angry look on my friend's father's face as he yelled at her and then at me.  "I thought she could swim!?!?  He had seen me sinking and ran into the water, fully dressed, swam out after me and pulled me out of the water.  He saved my life.

Two years later, we moved to California and joined a community center with a pool.  I learned to swim well when I was 10.  I learned to love the water so much and would shrivel up, skin all wrinkly and raw from staying in the pool so long.  It was my favorite thing for a while.  There were water ballet classes that I loved, swimming races and water games that were the highlight of my later summers. 

There was one set back once when a bullyish boy thought it was funny to hold me under water till I began gulping and choking on it and scared me to death, releasing the not so distant memory of my near drowning.  Boys could be so mean in the pool and often thought it was funny to dive on top of the girls, do cannon balls, push and shove and nearly ruined it for me again.

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It always perplexed me that my mother had never learned to swim.  Then, later in life she finally did.  My parents bought a beautiful house with a pool and she began lessons, enough so that she could tread water, and a little frog stroke, but she never put her head under water.  In actuality, I hardly ever felt completely comfortable with my head under water either and finally learned to tolerate snorkeling later in my life.

My first daughter learned to swim in a Water Babie's class at the local YMCA when she was 5 months old; swimming like a little fish, under water, big blue eyes open under water, by the time she was 8 months.  My other two daughters learned to swim by the time they were 3-4 years old, a promise I made to myself years ago.  It was a priority that they learn to swim very young and very well, so they would never have the fear of water I experienced when I was 8.

I always stay out of the deep end of the  pool.

That's where the bullies are.

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This is my first grandson with my daughter who began to love the water his first summer at the age of 5 months, the same age his mama learned to swim.

This last summer there were more days at the lake to learn to love and respect the water, along with his own personal pool in gramma's back yard .  We played, splashed and laughed with the water.  In many ways, we are both learning and yearning about all the fun to come, that simply is, the water.