I went swimming this morning. My initial enthusiasm for the pool at my gym (here, and here to a lesser extent) has bottomed out to about 3-4 sessions a month, which suits me fine. Any more than that and my neck gets creaky, my hairdresser grows alarmed, and the tedium of the laps gnaws at me like a chore. Swimming laps is like twiddling your thumbs, except it’s twiddling your whole damn body.
So once a week, I suit up for an hour of slow freestyle and periodic backstroke sprints. Backstroke has always been my favorite stroke and it’s impossible for me to swim slowly. My arms move as effortless as wind turbines, my hands entering the water pinky-side first to minimize the impact and maximize the resistance as they drag under my body. I remember learning this technique from my first swim team coach circa age 8. “Don’t slap your hands into the water,” she chided me. She was constantly correcting my form, but this is one lesson that stuck and it instantly turned me into a backstroker.
I think I can usually tell if my fellow swimmers at the gym were on a swim team when they were young. Sure, most children learn how to swim, but do most children swim hundreds of laps a week — perfecting their form, gaining endurance, and acclimatizing to chlorine?
My fellow former swim team members and I, we don’t slacken the pace as we approach a wall. We stroke evenly, perpetually, with compact kicks and syncopated breathing, with stalwart splash-free strokes. The seconds don’t tick as fast as our arms. And we always have the energy for another lap — it’s there in a reservoir of mettle, evolved to stave off haranguing coaches. Our kicks come from the hips. We will hold our breath if you ask us. Our wake is as resolute as schooner, as lasting as a tide.
