Counting Down the Days

July 22: A Gentle Presence

Swimming pools are a completely controlled environment; everything from the size and shape to the temperature is predetermined. The water is crystal clear and sterilized to the point of being toxic. When you go to the pool you have a purpose—whether it be fooling around with friends, or swimming back and forth for two hours. Whatever you do there, you had a plan, and nothing about the pool itself is going to stop you. There is no real risk involved in a swimming pool. No fear.

Open water is different. Open-water swimming has always frightened me. Not because I am afraid of drowning—I am a competitive swimmer with thirteen years of experience—but because I am frightened of the vast swathes of unknown territory beneath me. There be the creeping creatures and ancient gods, the waving tendrils of weeds to reach up and grab me. Usually I am too scared to even look down. More often than not I swim in ponds and lakes with my eyes tight shut.

I am not afraid of any of the reality of what lies beneath the surface—usually all there is to see is mud and plants and perhaps some fish. I dislike fish immensely it is true—particularly the meaty variety that don't budge when you kick at them—but it does not add up to the primal terror that open water swimming invokes within me. No, it is my own rampant imagination that makes open water so much worse than simply the sum of its parts. The darkness of the depths beneath me is but a cloak for the demons that lie in wait, lurking just beyond my line of sight. The layers of water growing gradually colder are from the chill breath of an unknown entity stirring at the bottom. I sometimes try to conquer my fear by staring down into the water, but a single movement in my peripheral vision—a flash of bubbles, a ray of sunlight—will immediately trigger my twitchy animal brain and put me back at square one.

If there is one thing that comforts me it is that, because my fear is tied to the imagination, it will wax and wane depending on my relationship with the body of water in which I am swimming. Some places feel businesslike and impersonal, like lake Winnisquam. It is so big and busy that I often get the impression it has no real interest in me. But then there are places that resent my presence. There is one pond I have in mind that is mostly used for boating and fishing. On one side it is cut off by a dam. It has a malevolent aura that is unrelated to any plants or animals I might find there. Maybe it is grumpy about all the fishing boats, but I dislike swimming there very much.

There is one pond though, tucked away in a private corner, nestled into the forest, that welcomes me. It is at the end of an unassuming dirt road that most people assume is private property. It does not get visitors often, so I believe it must enjoy the companionship I provide. There are lots of frogs and insects and the occasional loon, and the road noises are almost out of earshot. It is a sanctuary, where I slowly begin to lose my fear.

This pond coaxes me out of my shell. Here I am comfortable diving and flipping like nowhere else. Here I am almost comfortable swimming with my eyes fully open. Little by little, with the help of the pond's safe and gentle presence, I learn to let go. To trust.