Pointless

So I did swim, and it was cold, just as I feared it would be; but it was fine, just as I knew it would be. I swam almost every day this summer. I have as many adjectives to describe pool swimming conditions as Greenlanders have to describe snow. Which is to say not that many because apparently, the whole idea of native Alaskans and Greenlanders having a separate vocabulary just to describe snow was debunked years ago. I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Anyway, Tuesday’s pool conditions might best be described as “dank.” A slightly cool, slightly damp, pearly day; and chilly pool water that looked darker blue than usual, without the sparkling reflected sunlight. A few laps, and I was almost not freezing cold. But it was great, and I’d do it again. I will do it again. 

The point of swimming (for me, that is) is that there’s really no point, other than the fun of doing it. No matter how often I swim (as often as possible during the summer), my technique never really improves, and I never get faster, though I do build endurance as the summer goes on. Endurance and flexibility are my only athletic advantages. I’m slow, I’m not that strong, and I’m terribly uncoordinated. 

When I’m in the water, I do try to think about improving my technique. I realize sometimes that I’m swimming with my fingers spread apart, and I remind myself to keep my hands closed, like paddles. I prompt myself to kick, so that my upper body isn’t doing all the work. I try to engage my core. I don’t even know what that means, but I try to do it. But I’m not not a kinesthetic learner. The best way I can think of to describe this is that I can watch someone performing an activity correctly, and I try to imitate their form, and I feel like my body is doing exactly what I’m seeing in my mind, but observers tell me that I’m not even close. 

For example, what I think of as “breaststroke” would never pass a judge’s scrutiny, at least from the waist down. I try to kick outward, so that I’m gaining propulsion from the soles of my feet rather than the tops, but even as I’m thinking about what it should look like and consciously trying to do it, I know that my feet are kicking downward. And I can’t keep the kick simultaneous either. I’m going to DQ on a downward butterfly kick (or a scissors kick or an alternating kick) every single time. 

And that takes me back to the point, which is that there is no point, except that I really love to swim. I don’t have to pass a judge’s scrutiny. I don’t have to beat anyone. I don’t have to improve my time; this is why I don’t even bother to know what my time is. I just like the feeling of moving through water. 

*****

It’s Friday now, the Friday of Labor Day weekend. I hate Labor Day weekend. Normally, I hate it because it marks the end of summer, at least what I consider summer. And of course, the pool usually closes on Labor Day. This year, because so many of the kids who work as lifeguards (mine included) are attending school from home, the management company decided to keep the pool open for a few extra weeks. (The ‘rona mostly taketh, but it also giveth a little). This year, I hate Labor Day for entirely different reasons. I am actually happy to see the end of this summer, and that makes me sad, because it’s sad to wish summer away.

It rained on Wednesday and Thursday night; heavy, drenching rain that broke up the warmth and humidity that had begun to build again. The fall lovers are planning for the first taste of PSL weather this weekend, hoping that it will be cool enough to break out the sweaters and the backyard fire pits and the gaiter scarves that double as face masks. I’m not doing any of that nonsense. I’m going to swim.