I went swimming at the Aquarena this morning. When I got home, my wife asked, "Was it fun?"
"I hurt all over."
"But did you enjoy it?"
Enjoyment had nothing to do with it, I told her. I haven't been swimming since Jesus was a baby (not that that was my reason for doing it back then; the two events are completely unrelated), but I've been meaning to.
When I was a kid, I spent my summers in water. I'd swim in the ocean day after day. I knew the tides better than I knew my friends' habits. There was this huge rock at Sandy Cove I used to stand on and use as a diving platform. When the tide was in, only the very top of that boulder--which was really about the size of a small shed--protruded from the salty brine, making it a perfect launching pad. I'd do somersaults, back flips, and jackknife dives into the North Atlantic, eyes wide open as I explored the seabed filled with rocks and sand, seaweed, starfish, shellfish, jellyfish, and whatever else the ocean had to offer. The last time I did that I was seventeen years old and the rush just never got old--that feeling of exhiliration from doing something forbidden and even potentially dangerous, especially since I swam alone a lot. I'd go there with friends too, but, as with skating (also on the ocean) it was my habit to get up early most days and enjoy it in solitude. Nothing but me and nature. Sometimes, I'd get out of the water and just sit there, not even breathing heavy, and just listen to the birds, the tide, and the wind.
Sounds pretty idyllic. Of course, we also had a community outdoor swimming pool just down the hill from our house, and it was open from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. It would kill me to have to wait until 9 a.m., to be honest. Most days, I'd be there at the door, rushing to be first in line, with my money in hand. I'd stay there all day if I could, though most days I had enough money for only two or three hours. I'd swim pretty much all day. Up and down, deep end or shallow end, teasing the girls of course, diving off the board, though none too pretty. It was a swimmapalooza, all summer long. I hated when the pool would shut down for the day and I had to wait all night and early the next morning for it to open again. It wasn't that I had no life; it's just that, when I was young, this pretty much was my life. If I wasn't reading a book, I was playing some kind of sports. It wasn't that I had to choose swimming over softball, basketball, or hockey. I'd do those things too, often all in the same day.
Well, things have changed. I still run a few miles several days of the week and play badminton occasionally, putting the same amount of effort in that I always did. But it's been YEARS, actually decades, since I've been swimming, except for the occasional dip over the years at Butterpot Park (once about fifteen years ago) or glacier fed (thus, extremely cold in August) Harrison Lake in British Columbia's lower mainland.
I made up my mind I was going to get back to it--been meaning to for years. Well, this morning, I finally did. It's a little unnerving to don the swim trunks again after so many years. Back in the day, I didn't worry about how I looked; I just went. Now it's in the back of your mind, after years of hearing things in the media about how you're supposed to wear the right things to the beach and be in shape for summer, and all the rest of it, that you can't help it. You just know you're being assessed by everyone in the pool, lifeguards and all.
Then there's the fact that I never really was a very strong swimmer. Sure, I could do it. But I never learned the techniques you're supposed to learn. So I wondered: could I really do it after all these years?
Turns out I can, but there's a price to be paid. First of all, forget about how I look in swim shorts. Everyone at the pool, except for the twenty-year-old lifeguards who looked like they wouldn't put me out if I was on fire, let alone rescue me from drowning on their watch, was at least a little overweight. I was easily the smallest and (I thought) most fit person there.
So I went there, got in the water, didn't think about it, just dove in. Figured that was the best way. Well, it seems that somewhere along the way the muscles that one normally uses for swimming had decided to retire without telling me. Swimming is like giving birth (or so I've been told): no one tells you that, if you've never done it before, it's FREAKIN' HARD! Michael Phelps is a god. No two ways about it. But the thing is, he practices. He swims five hours a day. He eats, sleeps, breathes, and dreams about swimming. And so do most of those other aquine Olympians.
I swam thirty metres out, and I thought I was gonna die. Honestly. My heart was pounding. My arms were already sore, and my legs were like jelly. I only thought I was physically fit. I mean, sure I am fit for the most part, but nothing had prepared me for that burning sensation of my limbs and lungs.
But I stuck it out. I stayed for about forty minutes, forcing myself to swim though I felt like quitting. I knew that the only way I was going to get better and stronger at this was to practice. And it's not going to happen overnight. Just like when I start running after a long absence, I'll have to start slowly (in this case, excruciatingly slow) and work my way up to it. Maybe in a month or so I can do an entire 100 metre lap. That's the goal for now. It's not easy to do these things when so many people are watching. The Aquarena is a very public space, with eyes on you everywhere you turn, including the two lifeguards, who looked so bored and disgusted with my feeble efforts. I mean, it was obvious I'm no swimmer or that I haven't done it in a very long time. So give me a break.
The thing I often think about is, when you guys are in your thirties and forties, are you still going to be stretching yourself athletically and in other ways? Are you still going to be daring yourself to try new things or things that scare you a little? Are you going to be willing to teach yourself something slowly, painstakingly slowly, until you at least become good enough at it that you can enjoy it?
I can honestly say I've lived my life that way. Every now and then I do something to shake things up. So I take up a new sport or creative pursuit. I remember once, in my early twenties, I woke up one morning and went downtown with my guitar to busk for a day. It was a horrible experience in some ways, but exhilirating in other ways. Thing is, I wanted to know how it felt just so I could empathize with those who did it, but also because it was such a scary, public thing to do--I mean, singing for strangers on a street corner, most of them looking at you like you were a freak or a hobo. I didn't want money. I wanted self-respect: knowing that I could do such a thing meant that I had nothing to be afraid of in life.
The experience of taking up swimming this morning was just like that. You just take the thing that scares you the most in life and dive right in.
The next step, of course, is to take some lessons. I need them, just to get my technique down. After that: practice, practice, practice. It's not just how you get to Carnegie Hall. It's how you get the most out of life.
"I hurt all over."
"But did you enjoy it?"
Enjoyment had nothing to do with it, I told her. I haven't been swimming since Jesus was a baby (not that that was my reason for doing it back then; the two events are completely unrelated), but I've been meaning to.
When I was a kid, I spent my summers in water. I'd swim in the ocean day after day. I knew the tides better than I knew my friends' habits. There was this huge rock at Sandy Cove I used to stand on and use as a diving platform. When the tide was in, only the very top of that boulder--which was really about the size of a small shed--protruded from the salty brine, making it a perfect launching pad. I'd do somersaults, back flips, and jackknife dives into the North Atlantic, eyes wide open as I explored the seabed filled with rocks and sand, seaweed, starfish, shellfish, jellyfish, and whatever else the ocean had to offer. The last time I did that I was seventeen years old and the rush just never got old--that feeling of exhiliration from doing something forbidden and even potentially dangerous, especially since I swam alone a lot. I'd go there with friends too, but, as with skating (also on the ocean) it was my habit to get up early most days and enjoy it in solitude. Nothing but me and nature. Sometimes, I'd get out of the water and just sit there, not even breathing heavy, and just listen to the birds, the tide, and the wind.
Sounds pretty idyllic. Of course, we also had a community outdoor swimming pool just down the hill from our house, and it was open from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. It would kill me to have to wait until 9 a.m., to be honest. Most days, I'd be there at the door, rushing to be first in line, with my money in hand. I'd stay there all day if I could, though most days I had enough money for only two or three hours. I'd swim pretty much all day. Up and down, deep end or shallow end, teasing the girls of course, diving off the board, though none too pretty. It was a swimmapalooza, all summer long. I hated when the pool would shut down for the day and I had to wait all night and early the next morning for it to open again. It wasn't that I had no life; it's just that, when I was young, this pretty much was my life. If I wasn't reading a book, I was playing some kind of sports. It wasn't that I had to choose swimming over softball, basketball, or hockey. I'd do those things too, often all in the same day.
Well, things have changed. I still run a few miles several days of the week and play badminton occasionally, putting the same amount of effort in that I always did. But it's been YEARS, actually decades, since I've been swimming, except for the occasional dip over the years at Butterpot Park (once about fifteen years ago) or glacier fed (thus, extremely cold in August) Harrison Lake in British Columbia's lower mainland.
I made up my mind I was going to get back to it--been meaning to for years. Well, this morning, I finally did. It's a little unnerving to don the swim trunks again after so many years. Back in the day, I didn't worry about how I looked; I just went. Now it's in the back of your mind, after years of hearing things in the media about how you're supposed to wear the right things to the beach and be in shape for summer, and all the rest of it, that you can't help it. You just know you're being assessed by everyone in the pool, lifeguards and all.
Then there's the fact that I never really was a very strong swimmer. Sure, I could do it. But I never learned the techniques you're supposed to learn. So I wondered: could I really do it after all these years?
Turns out I can, but there's a price to be paid. First of all, forget about how I look in swim shorts. Everyone at the pool, except for the twenty-year-old lifeguards who looked like they wouldn't put me out if I was on fire, let alone rescue me from drowning on their watch, was at least a little overweight. I was easily the smallest and (I thought) most fit person there.
So I went there, got in the water, didn't think about it, just dove in. Figured that was the best way. Well, it seems that somewhere along the way the muscles that one normally uses for swimming had decided to retire without telling me. Swimming is like giving birth (or so I've been told): no one tells you that, if you've never done it before, it's FREAKIN' HARD! Michael Phelps is a god. No two ways about it. But the thing is, he practices. He swims five hours a day. He eats, sleeps, breathes, and dreams about swimming. And so do most of those other aquine Olympians.
I swam thirty metres out, and I thought I was gonna die. Honestly. My heart was pounding. My arms were already sore, and my legs were like jelly. I only thought I was physically fit. I mean, sure I am fit for the most part, but nothing had prepared me for that burning sensation of my limbs and lungs.
But I stuck it out. I stayed for about forty minutes, forcing myself to swim though I felt like quitting. I knew that the only way I was going to get better and stronger at this was to practice. And it's not going to happen overnight. Just like when I start running after a long absence, I'll have to start slowly (in this case, excruciatingly slow) and work my way up to it. Maybe in a month or so I can do an entire 100 metre lap. That's the goal for now. It's not easy to do these things when so many people are watching. The Aquarena is a very public space, with eyes on you everywhere you turn, including the two lifeguards, who looked so bored and disgusted with my feeble efforts. I mean, it was obvious I'm no swimmer or that I haven't done it in a very long time. So give me a break.
The thing I often think about is, when you guys are in your thirties and forties, are you still going to be stretching yourself athletically and in other ways? Are you still going to be daring yourself to try new things or things that scare you a little? Are you going to be willing to teach yourself something slowly, painstakingly slowly, until you at least become good enough at it that you can enjoy it?
I can honestly say I've lived my life that way. Every now and then I do something to shake things up. So I take up a new sport or creative pursuit. I remember once, in my early twenties, I woke up one morning and went downtown with my guitar to busk for a day. It was a horrible experience in some ways, but exhilirating in other ways. Thing is, I wanted to know how it felt just so I could empathize with those who did it, but also because it was such a scary, public thing to do--I mean, singing for strangers on a street corner, most of them looking at you like you were a freak or a hobo. I didn't want money. I wanted self-respect: knowing that I could do such a thing meant that I had nothing to be afraid of in life.
The experience of taking up swimming this morning was just like that. You just take the thing that scares you the most in life and dive right in.
The next step, of course, is to take some lessons. I need them, just to get my technique down. After that: practice, practice, practice. It's not just how you get to Carnegie Hall. It's how you get the most out of life.
