I’m going to go swimming tomorrow. I wandered the aisles of my local Target today, and studied the different goggles. Beginner, Intermediate, Advanced. I chose a rather flashy pair of red Intermediates. They look very serious to me, and may signal to others that I am a serious swimmer. Especially since I already own a pair of shark skin formulated swimming trunks that my brother Mark gave me for Christmas two years ago. Between the electric blue shockingly smooth trunks and my emergency red goggles, people might take me quite seriously when I walk to the pool.
But in truth I am a poor swimmer. I have little to no stamina, and tend to lapse into breast stroke after only a few laps of doing crawl. I get a sick feeling in the base of my stomach if I swim for more than ten minutes, and I have a tendency to weave drunkenly from side to side as I blindly seek the distant end of the pool.
Still, I’m getting up tomorrow at seven thirty in the morning, and hope to be in the water by eight. I’ll most likely swim for about fifteen minutes, and then towel off, go upstairs to have a mug of tea with my aunt and grandma whose building’s swimming pool I’ll be using, and then back home to begin my day.
Deep pelagic blues lie in my future. The soundless rush and roar of blood in my ears as I push and pull my way forward, water slicking my face and blowing out as I gasp for air with every rising turn of my head. The taste of chlorine, that shuddery feeling in my stomach. The cool, impersonal gray of dawn as I knife through the water like a determined spoon.
Maybe if I swim, I’ll come home and write. You never know. They’re both strangely lonesome pursuits.