2006 - Vol. 3, Issue 3

Swimming is my drug of choice. On land, I am a cumbersome ungainly body, one leg shorter than the other, with a pronounced limp, knees that creak and shudder at the sight of stairs, a back that sends shooting pains down one leg, a hip with minimal mobility. In water I am a mermaid — sleek, elegant and purposeful. Or a dolphin, playful and splashy. Observers tell me that my strokes — all three of them — back, crawl, and breast — are beautiful to behold: graceful, evenly spaced, and seemingly effortless. No wonder I yearn to be in the swimming pool every day where I feel so masterful, complete and joyous; where the even breathing of my lungs is a pleasant roar in my ears and the splashes of my limbs a symphony of sound. How I move is a thank you to my parents who threw me into my very first swimming pool at age four, somehow realizing that with my ailing hip I would be a native floater. Closing their eyes to the full extent of my disability, they preferred to think of me as a fish.

All my life I have sought out swimming pools when away from home. Several years ago, in Los Angeles, I spent $75 for a hour's swim at a spa, plus $40 for a taxi to get me there. In Beijing I gave up a special duck dinner in order to squeeze in a swim on a very tight schedule. I have passed up lunches on group tours to rush to unheated pools where, after the initial shock, I succumbed to the buttery waters. In Paris, I braved a pool full of bare–chested women, feeling awkward in my one–piece suit. In Oxford, England, I tried to dodge a group of rowdy children practicing dives with their whistle–blowing instructor.

Twenty seven years ago I moved into my condo because of the two large outdoor swimming pools. I swim every day. During inclement weather I may be the only swimmer. During one downpour, while I stood hesitantly at my door, leaning on my cane, wondering if I could manage to navigate the deep puddles in order to cross the street to the pool, I was stopped by a neighbor, who, hearing of my predicament, offered to ferry me to my destination. In my thick red swimming robe, with my swim hat on my head and goggles in hand, I was driven regally one block to my pool.

A week ago, on a cold, blustery December day, with winds shrieking, I went for my daily swim with my new, red, four–wheel Nova walker. "It's the best brand available," my young doctor had told me when he had filled out the prescription. Now, clinging to its padded handles, I walked slowly, the wind buffeting my robe and swirling my towel in circles. Of course, I was the only one in the pool area. The steam was rising in plumes from both the pool and the hot tub, and I felt as if I was in some enchanted aqua world as I stepped into the tub and was immediately enveloped by the steamy vapors. No matter that the trees shook and swayed. No matter that the wind howled and scattered fistfuls of leaves into the water. No matter that the usual cacophony of songful birds was eerily absent. I felt close to wild nature, yet safe in my warm bath.

I did my usual exercises, relishing the accomplishment of walking back and forth in the hot tub without a limp. Buoyed by the water, I felt weightless and free. I started with my routine exercises — traversing backward and forward 25 times the length of the jacuzzi, followed by 30 knee bends. After that, I made figure–eights with my hips, as I'd been taught by my Feldenkries instructor. Last was a series of leg movements learned from various water therapists. Feeling invigorated, refreshed, and supple after my 15 minute workout, I grabbed my walker and moved to the pool for my hour–long swim.

The storm was in full force now, almost a gale, but as I stepped into the pool water I felt safe in my most natural habitat. Fully at ease, I slithered like a fish through the heated pool. Back and forth I went, intent on doing my 20 laps. The wind was above me, but I was inside the warm cocoon of water, snug in my element. After all, I am a Pisces.

Submerged in this almost hypnotic state, I glided through my watery world. Often when I am alone in the pool, I swim with eyes closed. But for some reason this time I opened my eyes and looked towards my walker, which I had left near the pool railing. It was not there. Oh no!

Heart pounding, I looked everywhere, trying to locate it. The wind was swirling in gusts around me and leaves performed a fiery dervish–like dance obstructing my vision. Small waves sprayed droplets on my goggles, blinding me. Finally, I detected it floating near the stairs. I watched as it slowly sank, only the red handles visible.

I stopped doing my laps and began to jog in place, so as to keep an eye on my drowning walker. I formed the words, "Help! Help!" but couldn't get them out of my throat, choking on water when I tried. It was pointless anyway since there was no one around the pool. No one taking a walk. No doubt everyone was inside during this storm, heat turned up, making themselves cozy with hot tea.

The walker was now on its side with only one red handle sticking out like a pleading hand. It wanted to be rescued. I needed to rescue it. But how? Even if I had the strength to pull out this water–logged device, would it be usable? With a pounding heart, I watched the handles sink below the surface. Circling it like a sniffing dog, I tried to find a way to pull it out, but at each effort my shoulders sent serious pain messages to my back. Standing in the water I found myself shivering with cold and frustration, my tears joining the water below.

What to do? On land, without my walker, I can only take a few steps by holding on to chairs, tables, and walls. All the pool furniture was bunched up in a far–off corner, as if grouped together for protection against the storm. There was nothing in the vicinity to hang on to — no furniture, not even a garbage can. It was a vast empty desert of water. The storm was gathering hurricane force — wind eddies searing my face. No longer a sleek mermaid, I felt like an injured harpooned whale.

I kept swimming, trying to stay warm. How could the water have suddenly turned so glacial? From time to time, I waved my hand, even though there was no one around. It felt better at least to try. Would I have to stay in the pool for hours until rescued? I raged at the betrayal of my familiar habitat, hating the icy water and shivering in its frigid grasp.

This is it, I thought to myself. I will never return. Totally vulnerable and exposed, I looked towards the pool clock, but without my glasses could not tell the time. I was in a totally hostile and timeless environment. Damn!

Through the mist, I saw two hooded figures walking towards the pool. Dressed in long white robes, they looked like monks winding their way in deep contemplation, their heads burrowed in their capes. Was this a mirage? Was I seeing things? Somewhere I had read that lowered body temperature causes one's senses to diminish. But as they neared, I realized that they were "The Regulars," Matthew and Ginny, an older couple who, like me, swim daily. We call ourselves "The Crazies" since nothing keeps us away from the water.

Shrieking "Help!" I swallowed water and felt like throwing up. Pointing to the drowning walker, I waved both hands, trying to attract their attention. Matthew cupped his ears, obviously not hearing or understanding what I was saying.

"Walker, walker!" I yelled desperately.

"What?" he said coming nearer to the pool.

"Drowning. Walker. Drowning," I kept repeating.

Finally Matthew realized what was going on and gave a huge guffaw. This stunned me since I didn’t see anything funny in the situation until I realized that from his perspective it was quite ludicrous to see a drowning walker.

Matthew dropped his robe and rushed into the pool where he fished out the now almost invisible beleaguered walker. He shook the water off its frame and set in on land. He did it painlessly and swiftly, astonishing me with his strength.

"See now. All is well, nothing wrong with it. Just took a bath," he said smiling at me. He walked towards the hot tub where he joined Ginny.

Feeling nearly frozen by now, I decided not to continue my lap swimming, although I did feel guilty for not completing my usual 20 laps. I needed to be reunited with my walker and cover myself with the hot jacuzzi water. Touching the Nova's padded, dripping arms, I moved it gingerly ahead, fearful that it was damaged beyond repair. But, to my delight, it moved forward, none the worst for its submersion.

Once my frozen body was soothed by the steam and my limbs massaged by the gurgling jets, I felt safe again. I could laugh with Ginny and Matthew as we talked about my "drowning walker" and how Matthew had come to my rescue. The terror passed into memory.

Of course, I still go for my daily swim — even on windy, blustery days. I crave my fix. But now I tie my walker to the railing of the pool, using my robe belt to secure it tight.

Someday I may have to wheel myself to the pool in a wheelchair. Jokingly I have said, "Even if they have to carry me on a gurney, I will get to my pool." After all, my parents trained me to be a fish, to be graceful in water as I never am on land.