I love the water but I’m not much of a swimmer. I have always sucked at the crawl, or freestyle, as some people refer to it. Unfortunately, it seems to be the only swim stroke to prove your lap lane worthiness. If you’re just doing the side stroke you’re not a real swimmer. You’re a swimmer who can’t man up to doing the crawl.
The butterfly is for show offs. Unless you are an Olympic swimmer you just look like you’re swimming frontward and backward at the same time, causing quite a stir in the water, splashing waves over the lap lane buoys. You’re not really going anywhere, but not sinking either.
I am into going somewhere. I am all about the numbers and the time, kicking hard off the wall, gliding as far as I can before breaking into stride, reaching the other side without banging my head.
There’s a certain trust involved in swimming laps. A trust that if you swim into the wall at full force, you’ll crack your head open and go straight down in a billowy plume of blood. At first, when I began doing the backstroke, I’d flip back onto my stomach when I sensed I was at the end of the lane. I could never guess it right. Sometimes I’d be ten strokes from the end; sometimes I’d smash my knuckles on the wall.
I decided that the blue pennant flags that are strung from one side of the pool to the other, crossing over the lanes, had a purpose. I knew an experienced swimmer would know how many strokes were left once they were directly under that string of flags. Not me. I counted squares in the drop ceiling. There are eight squares between the flag and the wall. But I tell myself to stop at the sixth and drift to the wall as a precaution, the way I like to keep my watch five minutes fast so I show up places early instead of late. The difference between six and eight squares could be the difference between continued swimming or a whistle blow: “Biohazard! Everyone outta the pool!”
I am trying to do 32 laps, half a mile, in under a half hour. As I say this I wonder if Michael Phelps ever said that, say, when he was a toddler? When I’m six or seven strokes out on the next lap, I wonder if Michael Phelps would already be thrusting off the wall at the other end by now.
When I’m up to my 13th lap the water turns from cold to warm, almost too warm. Someone is turning up the temp when my face is in the water and then running back to their lifeguard chair
I have to work myself up to doing the crawl. I do the breaststroke, my best stroke, for four laps and then I ballsy my way up to the crawl. As if the breast stroke is a shot of tequila to give me the courage to handle the crawl.
The crawl. When I do it, it sounds like someone is having an asthma attack. I don’t know if sounds that way just to me or if my desperate gasp echoes throughout the pool. I try to blot out that curiosity because when it’s all I can think about, I try to breathe more quietly and I can’t get as much air. It throws off my rhythm.
I realize that to be any good at the crawl, you have to be a whore to the rhythm. No one will tell you that, the way no one will tell you that taking care of an infant is the most difficult job in the world. It’s a conspiracy. That information should be painted on the pool floor.
I have worked at my rhythm enough that I’ve developed a habit. I can only inhale over the left shoulder, which puts the lifeguard in view every other lap. I try not to look at him through my goggles to see if he’s sitting on the edge of his lifeguard chair, watching the asthmatic, and debating if he should dive in and save her. Then I lose my rhythm and inhale water and cough.
I especially sound asthmatic, or repeatedly startled, at a quarter mile, when it’s a matter of life or death, trying to get that breath of air before having to exhale with my face in the water. I have trouble keeping my breath and arms at the same pace. I am forever coordinating, fumbling in the dark with it, until I can perfect the part where I make that huge gasp for air without water shooting down my windpipe.
That sort of ruins it when that happens. I immediately think I’m going to drown, or the lifeguard is watching me. Everyone in their lap lanes stop their hypnotic strokes of perfection and make sure I’m okay. I try to pretend it’s not me coughing. I go into a backstroke. Keep moving. Coughing. Moving. Coughing. Moving. Imagining how many inches are between my head and the wall.
I wonder what I would do if the lifeguard thought I was drowning and I wasn’t. He’d blow the whistle. I’d hear it between breaths. A splash would follow, a dive in the no diving end. I’d see movement out of the side of my goggles. Someone would grab me from behind, hook their arm around my neck. I’d choke and cough and, maybe yell, “HELP!” Upon realizing it’s the lifeguard who thinks he’s rescuing me, I’d pretend I really was drowning, so he wouldn’t feel embarrassed, so that everyone felt that the lifeguard we have on duty is paying attention instead of texting his girlfriend about plans for later. After that, I’d have to cancel my gym membership and find some other place with a pool and a less vigilant lifeguard, which shouldn’t be impossible.
Somewhere in the 20s I get into the zone. I’m doing the crawl consistently without choking. I’ve found my rhythm. I’m rocking, stomach side, stomach side. My arms are in pace with my breath. I’m inhaling air only and exhaling all the way before having to come up for more air. It’s not quite perfected. There are times when I can only inhale half a sip of air and then the next time I come up it’s a giant, aggressive gulp. My mouth fights for air on behalf of my lungs. It’s going to win. My mouth bites for the air, the way a leopard bites a gazelle’s back to bring it down. Aggressive, air hunter, my mouth is. I will conquer the air! I will bring it down! I will make it to the wall without choking or coughing or banging my head.
That’s how I do the crawl. Like an asthmatic leopard in a blue bathing cap and goggles. Not something you see every day.
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