Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
As I slip into the water today, I realize to my surprise that I can swim.
For as long as I can remember, the seductive hues of swimming pools have beckoned to me, promising an effortless glide through benign, buoyant waters that caress my toned limbs.
But as I’ve learned to my cost, and probably to the amusement of the ever-younger lifeguards perched up high scanning for trouble below, my middle-aged body is more cumbersome than waifish. Despite my fond imaginings, I’m more akin to a lumbering water beetle than a graceful mermaid.
I usually drift along on my back, doing a desultory back crawl while gazing at the bleached-wood ceiling high above me, lost in profound thoughts or mentally compiling my grocery list. But in the coveted lanes designated for the serious lap swimmer, paddling on my back leads to the semi-regular jolt of a nasty collision and a muttered oath from an often-intemperate person who can actually swim forward.
I have raised two lifeguards, with a third clamouring for his turn, and spent endless hours watching them perfect their strokes and skills.
Long ago, as a wary immigrant child taking swimming lessons in suburban Winnipeg, I failed prebeginners: not once, not twice, but a full three times. Not only that, but my favourite earrings lie somewhere in the depths. Or perhaps they’ve long been adorning someone else’s ears. Someone who can swim. My father was no help, wringing his hands as he looked on in dread. After that debacle, I gave up the water for years until one day, for no reason at all, I tried again.
As a student, I ventured cautiously into the university pool, where people seemed kinder, or at least gave me a wide berth while I back-paddled along lost in contemplation. For that’s one of the chief delights of the pool: A glimmering expanse of aqua water lying motionless beneath the high arc of the ceiling invites meditation. Sometimes on enchanted mornings, when rays of sunlight stream in, it becomes a temple of sorts to sport, speed and exhilaration. I can imagine myself strong and powerful, the water and I becoming one in a temporary fusion of elements.
This melding into one feels more pronounced in the limpid waters of the Caribbean coast, where a third element – wind – tosses the waves, and luminous air competes with languorous waters.
Water terrifies me, yet I cannot resist its allure. As a newlywed, I was kayaking off the Jamaican shore when I became spellbound by the distinct dark line where the turquoise shelf of the shallows plunges fathoms deep. Impelled by the same fascination and fear that holds a prey captive in the gaze of its predator, I continued paddling until I crossed that border between light and indigo sea, only to collapse in visceral panic.
Feigning calmness, breathing deeply, I told myself there was nothing to fear, and inexpertly turned the small craft back toward shore while some mad spirit within me roared in triumph.
I still suffer an agony of terror when I watch the movie Titanic or think of the dark, cold depths swirling beneath me when I jump (lifejacket in place) into the Ottawa River. But other spectres haunt me, too.
I’m scared when I jump off the quad lift at the top of the ski hill, fearful of impatient skiers disembarking and landing on me – and it’s happened, more than once. I ignore my palpitations when I pick up speed on the trails, spinning ivory powder in my wake. The fear never goes, merely drops to a just-perceptible level. But then the magic takes over: The blue January sky, the dollops of heavy snow weighing down green boughs, the rush of wind as I trace giant curves down the gleaming run, leave no room for doubt.
The fear that would paralyze visits me often. It slinks like a ravenous fox in the small hours, when we’re most alone. When the night is deepest it leaps on our chests, making us breathless and small. And that wily fox visits us all.
I think of my Urdu-speaking mother. Her timorous nature was regularly vanquished by an unassuming determination. Like others of her cohort, she married soon after completing high school in Pakistan. But her ambition, though quiescent for long years, eventually broke to the surface. While tending to her first grandchild, she found time to wrestle with English grammar. And one day, she shyly announced that she’d registered for college. Despite an underwhelming response from her loved ones, she came to glowing life as she pursued an undreamed-of career in the library of the Manitoba Legislature.
My mother learned to swim before I did, and without a coach.
Now, at my neighbourhood pool, I suddenly find I can put my face down in water with equanimity. I inhale large gulps of air and flail for a while before settling into a slow, steady rhythm. I can see fellow swimmers swiftly kick past me in the long and easy stroke that I’ve envied for years.
Now, I can swim.
Ferrukh Faruqui lives in Ottawa.