Recently I was talking
to my grandniece, Shelley, about the many things I would do differently
if Shirley MacLaine is right and we get more than one shot at
this thing called life. The big problem, though, I said, is that
I probably won't remember them all. "Don't worry, Rosie," she
replied. "If I know you, you'll have Post-It notes all over your
casket."
Not a bad idea. And
the largest note will say: LEARN TO SWIM! Actually, I almost
learned to swim several years ago at an age when most people are
taking up rock-the kind you do in a chair, not at a disco. I don't
know why it took me so long. I think it all goes back to my childhood
(of course); and I'm sure my mother was to blame (naturally).
You see, she was afraid of the water (and doubtlessly her mother
was to blame for that); and because she was overprotective, she
transmitted that fear to me.
At that time, many
of our relatives lived on the shores of the icy Atlantic in Winthrop,
Massachusetts; and my parents and I spent every summer weekend
with them at the beach. All my cousins were as at home in the
water as the ubiquitous minnows. They (the cousins and the minnows)
obviously all had well-adjusted mothers.
Every weekend, cousins,
aunts and uncles-all well-intentioned-would nobly try to help
me overcome my abject terror of the deep (hey, it was up to my
knees!) by trying to teach me to swim. They all invariably employed
the same method. Each, in turn, would coax (spelled d-r-a-g) me,
screaming, into the frigid water, force me over onto my stomach
and absolutely swear they would not let go of me. But they always
did. And I would sink choking and panic-stricken to the bottom-only
two feet down, but the bottom, nevertheless.
It got so I didn't
like summers very much, especially weekends, until I grew older
and stronger and adamantly refused to be dragged seaward any more.
My family finally abandoned their hopeless efforts and left me
alone to splash happily in the shallow waters (where I pretended
to be baby-sitting for any nearby toddlers so I wouldn't look
too peculiar). Gradually I began to like summer weekends, the
beach, and my relatives-in that order.
However, as the years
went by, it became more and more embarrassing being the only one
in the crowd who couldn't swim. At the seashore, I could get by
with standing waist-deep, pretending I loved to jump over the
waves. At pools, however, since there was no surf, it was a different
story. I'd sit in the sun, almost prostrated by the heat, looking
longingly at the rest of the gang happily swimming in the cool,
azure water. I'd have given anything just to get wet and cool
off; but I knew I'd look foolish just standing or sitting in the
shallow end where even the tiniest tots were actually swimming.
And since my friends knew I wasn't baby sitting, that old ploy
wouldn't work.
But even more discomforting
than the heat were the inevitable questions. My old friends said
nothing. They knew why I was dry-docked. But there were always
some new ones who would naturally yell, "Hey, Ro! Aren't you coming
in?" I was afraid an admission that I couldn't swim would result
in an instant replay of my childhood beach outings-only worse.
This time my instructors wouldn't be relatives; they'd be the
few new boys we'd met that weekend whom we were all trying to
impress. Since I felt that even bone dry I wasn't all that impressive,
I knew I wouldn't have a chance once they saw me choking and sputtering,
with matted hair streaming over my fear-contorted face. So I'd
be very vague about why I wasn't in the water (in those days women
didn't swim at "that time of the month"), and the boys would soon
get embarrassed and stop asking. (It didn't take much to embarrass
boys back then.) It wasn't easy, and I always welcomed the first
frost of the year.
One winter shortly
after I had graduated from college and had accumulated a few paychecks,
I somehow got talked into a Miami Beach vacation with a couple
of friends. I guess I was thinking of those star-filled nights,
completely forgetting about the sun-drenched days. And there it
was again-the bane of my existence-the dreaded swimming pool.
As usual, I didn't dip even the tip of a toe into it. And since
I couldn't cavort in the surf because great globs of jellyfish
had staked a prior claim, I resigned myself once again to baking
in the sun.
On the second day of
our stay, an athletic-looking man with a cheerful grin walked
up to where I (parched and dry) and my two friends (refreshingly
wet from their recent dips) were sitting on our deck chairs.
"Hi!" he announced.
"I'm Charlie. Is there anyone here who can't swim?" I turned,
pretending to scan our immediate neighbors for someone who qualified,
hoping to draw attention away from myself. It almost worked, but
my so-called friends ratted on me. "She can't!" they squealed
in unison, pointing at me. Charlie was delighted. "Come!" he said,
taking my arm. "I will teach you!"
"No, thank you," I
said, trying to yank my arm free. "Don't thank me-I'm looking
for business," he said. "I'm the hotel's swimming instructor."
I saw an out and tried to scurry through. I pleaded an extremely
tight budget and told him that much as I'd like to learn to swim,
I certainly couldn't afford professional lessons.
"It's only $50 for
the whole week, and I guarantee to teach you," he said. "Sorry,"
I insisted. "Can't afford it." But my former friends turned into
instant Judases, in reverse. Instead of accepting money to betray
me, they actually shelled it out! Charlie beamed as he told me
there was no limit to the lessons. He would simply spend as much
time with me as necessary, even if it took eight hours a day for
the rest of the week. Wonderful. And we would start right then-that
very minute.
Little had I realized
when I got up that morning that disaster was waiting for me fourteen
flights down. Nothing I could do or say would dissuade him; so
before I knew it, there I was, down by the pool. Looking up, I
had a good view of the two large sun decks surrounding the pool
and everyone sitting there who had a wonderful view of me. And
I was a sight to see.
By now, my teacher/tormenter
had supplied me with a 1920s-style bathing cap, three sizes too
big, which kept slipping down over my eyes and the bridge of my
nose which, in turn, was decorated with a lovely rubber nose plug
in the latest shade of black. And on my feet, the piece de resistance-two
huge swimming fins which completed my transformation into a refugee
from a Disney cartoon.
"Okay!" said Cheery
Charlie. "We're going in the water now!"
Anything to get out
of sight, at least partially; so I started following him-and fell
flat on my face. I had never learned to walk with giant webbed
feet. He helped me up, and I finally made my agonizing way into
the pool-the shallow end, needless to say-where Charlie tried
to get my feet off the bottom by promising he would hold me and
not let go. Hah! I'd heard that song before. After an hour of
fruitless effort, I hoped he was ready to forfeit his fee and
give up-or even keep the money and give up. In fact, I'd pay him
a bonus!
But I was a challenge,
so he continued patiently until he finally won my confidence.
And, miracle of miracles, by the end of the third hour, Charlie
actually had me doing a very tense dead man's float. I was the
stiffest stiff ever, but I was really floating! Dizzy with success,
Charlie would not let me quit while we were both ahead. He instructed
me to hold on to the ridge at the side of the pool and, hand-over-hand,
work my way around to the deep end. The mere words "deep end"
turned me to stone once more. Charlie stopped and picked up a
long pole. "Look," he said, "Even if you do sink, I can get you
with this in seconds; you won't drown." "I know," I said, "the
heart attack would get me first."
I think he realized
I wasn't kidding (and how would that look in the papers?), so
he finally took pity on me and helped me out of the pool. I avoided
it and him for the rest of the week.
After I had been home
a few months, I read in the paper that the local Boys & Girls
Club was offering beginners swimming lessons for adult women.
I still remembered that frightening but glorious moment when I
had actually floated (was it a dream?) and wondered if I could
do it again. At any rate, it would at least be heartening to meet
some other "adult women beginning swimmers."
The first evening there,
the instructor (a mere slip of a 19-year-old who looked as though
she couldn't save a drowning Barbie doll) announced to a shivering
bunch of women in the pool, "Okay-those of you who can keep afloat,
go to the left side of the pool. The others stay here."
Since I had no confidence
at all that I really could float, I decided I'd better be one
of "the others." It turned out I was the only "other." As all
the frauds who had claimed to be beginners floated gracefully
away, the instructor said to me. "You stay here and practice until
you can float. Then you can join us."
I tried. I really did.
I tried to recall everything that Charlie had told me. I tried
to pretend he was there to keep my head above water if I should
start to sink. I tried to relax. I tried to figure out what in
God's name I was doing there! I spent most of the remainder of
the hour skinning my knees at the bottom of the pool, and I never
went back for another "lesson."
In my next incarnation,
I'll show 'em! And while I'm at it, would you please hand me one
more Post-It note..there's also this ice skating thing, you see.and,
oh yeah, skiing.and dancing.and singing.and tennis.and.oh, what
the heck, you'd better give me the whole pad.
