One morning my daughter Robin called from California with some exciting news
in her four year old son's life -- "Danny swam across the pool, Mom. He is so
proud of himself."
And he should be.
I felt elated that he can because I know that even though I live 3000 miles
away - I had a hand in it.
The story starts a few years back. In 1955 I married Jim Schoettler, who is a
good swimmer. He grew up in California where he spent long summers swimming
in back yard pools, at sunny beaches, and in cold mountain lakes. He was even
a Sea Scout.
We produced three children who are excellent swimmers and who swam
competitively from the age of eight until high school. They worked at
neighborhood swimming pools as summer lifeguards when they were teenagers.
From them have issued our five grandchildren -- who like Danny, are happy
water babies.
I, on the other hand, am an excellent bather. I love a good tub of hot bubbly
water. I happily dangle my feet over the side of a pool and I am incredibly
appreciative of the rhythmic lull of the breaking surf heard - - which I can
hear well enough from a towel on the warm sand.
Believe it or not, I have an excellent free style arm stroke as long as my
feet are planted firmly on the solid concrete of the pool floor. The truth is
- I freeze; I am terrified; if the water laps threateningly above my knee
caps. I am not a swimmer.
My mother was not a swimmer. She believed that public swimming pools were
dirty and disease ridden and would never take us no matter how hard we
begged. When we went to the beach our gambols into the shallow waves were
accompanied by Mama's shrieks of "you're out too far"; and warnings about the
dreaded "undertow."
By the time I was ten I was just plain scared of the water.
I tried to learn to swim. I did. I took lessons at the YWCA and developed my
stokes but I could never trust being in water over my head. When I was
sixteen I went to a summer youth conference in the mountains in North
Carolina. One day we all went to a dammed up swimming pool in a cold clear
stream for some fun. I was wading with the group when one of the counselors
volunteered to teach me to swim.
I liked her; I trusted her; I agreed. I stretched out on top of the water
while she held my head up and steadied my back.
"Lay back, Ellouise. Relax. Just float on the water."
I did. When I closed my eyes and relaxed she slid her hands away leaving me
suspended -- on my own. As soon as I realized her she had let go - I dropped
my feet to reassure myself that I was in shallow water.
I stepped into a bottomless hole. When I came up gasping she did not grab me.
She was standing a foot away from me, on a firm rock, in water less than
waist deep. She thought I was clowning.
I dropped below the surface again and again. The next thing I knew I was
stretched out face down on the rock ledge with someone straddling my back
administering artificial respiration.
From that moment on I decided that I was not a swimmer, would not be a
swimmer and further more did not want to be a swimmer.
This worked fine for me -- until I married a swimmer and we had children. In
Jim's mind summer meant swimming. We went to the pool on weekends. After a
while he stopped trying to get me into the water. He took the kids into the
big pool and paddled around with them. They loved the deep water. During the
week I lounged contentedly beside the baby pool with my young ones.
We started swimming lessons for Jimmy when he was four and tall enough. Then
for Karen and Robin as soon as they were tall enough. I spent everyday every
summer at the pool with them. As Jimmy became a more adept swimmer I stood
with my heart in my throat and watched him swim in the deep water. Karen also
took to the water easily. She paddled the length of the pool by bobbing up
and down under the surface of the water, completely fearless, long before she
mastered strokes and breathing methods.
But Robin was a bird of a different feather. She liked the baby pool. At five
she wasn't overjoyed by expeditions into deep water with her Dad and when we
announced she was tall enough for swimming lessons she said, "I won't." We
were adamant --"you will." We were bigger.
The next day I sat near the edge of the pool and watched the group of four
and five year olds line up. When it was her turn Robin refused to jump into
the water. "No." she screamed. "I won't. I'm too scared." She ran across the
walkway to me.
" I don't want to. I am too scared, Mom."
"Robin, this is going to be fun, honey. You have to learn to swim like Jimmy
and Karen."
" Why? You don't swim-- why do I have to."
You know what they call a knee jerk response? Well, I think that's what
happened to me when she said that. I knew this called for drastic action.
I took her by the hand, walked around the pool until I came to stand beside
the lifeguard's perch. I looked up into the tanned face of an eighteen year
old. Could I trust him?
"Look," I said, "I need your help. My little girl won't take swimming lessons
because she says she's afraid of the water."
He didn't say anything -- just looked back quizzically.
Like, so what?
I continued. "I cannot swim, but I am going to jump off that diving board. I
will jump toward the wall. I want you to stand right here, " I pointed to a
spot closest to the end of the diving board, ready to pull me out. Okay?" He
looked at me as if I was crazy but he did seem to understand.
He slowly climbed down from his platform and moved to the edge of the pool
where he took his position next to the ladder in the diving well.
Robin was watching my every move. She wasn't saying a word. Her big brown
eyes were wide open -- the size of quarters. The expression on her face was a
mixture of shock and fear. Was this her mother walking slowing to the diving
board?
I stepped onto the green plastic scratchy mat. I can still feel how it
pricked the soles of my bare feet. I pulled in several deep breaths. The
sounds of the pool became strangely distant. I walked slowly to the edge of
the board, trying not to bounce it too much. I turned toward the wall where
the guard was standing, checked that he was watching me. I stretched my arms
and body out as far as I could in the direction of the wall and then dove
toward him.
The water was warm from the July sun. I surfaced quickly, reached out and
felt the cool tiles of the pool wall. I had aimed myself perfectly. I
clutched the rung of the ladder and pulled myself out of the water.
"Thanks," I said to the lifeguard, as he climbed back up on his stand. "And
as for you," I turned to Robin, but she was not there. She was walking back
to take her place at the end of the line to jump into the water.
I walked back to my lounge chair, sat down and took a slow, deep breath. I
felt good.
Today I still cannot swim; but that's okay; my grandchildren can.
©1998
