The Weight of Our Expectation

The Drowning Man (part 1)

(edited 27 SEP 2024)

The days that followed the disastrous initial swimming lesson were a torture calibrated for maximum dread. Each morning, Max woke with a leaden weight in his stomach, knowing that come late afternoon, his father might insist they return to the YMCA. He thought of it as his personal chlorine-scented hellscape, where he was pre-destined to be defeated.

Nights were spent pouring over websites, studying the theories and mechanics of swimming, his logic-driven mind retaining every informative bit. He could recite the physics of buoyancy, even imagine himself achieving the optimal angle for a racing dive. None of this made him any less terrified of the actual act of being in the water, especially with his father barking impossible commands from the poolside.

"The disconnects between theory and practice are apparently in direct proportion to my lack of experience, strength, and coordination —as well as to the volume of my father's demands," he concluded.

Kurt, for his part, viewed Max's poor performance as a personal affront, a challenge to his paternal authority and his deeply held beliefs about exercise and manhood. He'd always been a coiled spring of energy, looking for any physical activity that would allow him to let loose. Though frustrated by Max's lifelong disdain for activities as easy as fishing, camping, or Little League, he still refused to give up. Max might not make the football team, but he wasn't going to be a loser, either. "He'll thank me for this one day" became his motto.

It was a full week before Kurt had calmed himself enough to return to the YMCA with Max and the oversized blue trunks in tow. The air in the pool locker room was thick with its familiar cocktail of chlorine, used towels, and athletic energy. Max tried his best to breathe through his mouth, but the taste of the chlorinated air was still too much to bear.

"Let's go, Maxwell! Hup, hup! We're burning daylight here!" Kurt boomed, already changed and radiating an aura of "move it or I'll move it for you" that had Max scrambling to stabilize the voluminous swimming trunks with that ridiculous leather belt.

Max remained standing awkwardly in the central aisle of the locker room, where his father had chosen. The narrow benches were wet in places, and who could say what bacteria were growing there? It required a superhuman effort to ignore the glances of the other guys changing in and out of their swimsuits. He felt like a misplaced minnow in a locker room full of sharks. His gaze fell upon the pair of enormous blue trunks he'd been forced to wear – and the old black leather belt he required hold them in place.

It was like wearing a costume, a pathetic, comical attempt to resemble a swimmer.

The familiar wave of nausea hit as he followed his father out to the pool, where the air vibrated with splashes and shouts of other people — mostly other kids — who seemed truly happy to be in the water. The overhead lights cast an unsettling, sickly, greenish glow on everything in their realm.

"Today we're working on stamina," Kurt announced, as though this were an activity they'd enjoy together. "Get in there and tread water for a full minute, then a thirty second break before we do it again. We'll do ten sets." The man's face turned even more stern, if such a thing were possible. "And I don't want to see any of that doggy paddling crap, either. We're here to build a man, not a puppy. Let's go! Move it!"

Max's stomach lurched. Treading water. His nemesis. He knew, with absolute certainty, that his skinny legs would fail him, that he'd swallow many liters of chlorine-tainted water, that his father would scoff and complain about "wimps" and an apparent "lack of backbone."

The boy stepped into the shallow end and waded deeper, each step sending ripples of seasickness through him, as he approached the inevitable. From around the pool, he could feel eyes on him — curious, amused, judgmental. His own gaze darted around, searching for a focal point, a distraction from the overwhelming sensory input that was already making him feel lightheaded.