For the Holiday Happenings program at my gym, East Hills/the MAC, I won a free swimming lesson. At first I was disappointed for two reasons: 1. I would need to be in a suit and 2. I'm not a great swimmer. I also had my eyes on the $100 spa giftcard or maybe a discount at the gym's clothing shop. After the initial disapointment of not getting a free trip to a spa, I decided it was a good prize because I could use the help in becoming a better swimmer.
Still, the idea of having an instructor watch me, a 28-year-old who can swim only well enough to not drown, is daunting. I haven't had a great track record with swimmng lessons.
I remember my first lesson at age 4 as clearly as I remember the taste of my mother-in-law's buttercake, which I ate five minutes ago. It's a vivid memory because I almost died.
I had watched my older sister, Julie, take swimming lessons for years from the metal bleachers at the Grand Ledge High School pool. I had watched my sister learn all kinds of strokes from a nice instructor also named Julie, and pass from one level to the next to the next. On the afternoon of my first "beginner" lesson, I was excited beyond belief for it to be my turn in the pool instead of the bleachers. After watching so many lessons, I figured I would be a natural. I would be the best student, swimming effortlessly while all the other kids struggled along. We were lined up in the water in the shallow end, holding the edge with one hand and our kickboards with the other. Julie, the same instructor, stood at the end. She was talking, and I just wanted to start swimming. I was so excited, I let go of the wall and just held on with one hand to the kickboard. I didn't notice, but I drifted out a bit from the wall. Then in my excitment, I let go of the kickboard.
And realized I wasn't a natural swimmer. Instead, I started to sink. I didn't know to kick my legs or pump my arms. I was straight as a pin and did the only thing that made sense: I raised my hand. The water closed in over my head. Luckily I had the sense to close my eyes and hold my breath, and leave my arm in the air. My feet probably hit the bottom of the shallow end, but my head remained under water. It felt like an eternity, but eventually I felt someone grab my hand and pull me out of the water by my arm. I gasped in air to my oxygen-deprived lungs, thankful to be alive.
Instructor Julie had jumped in the pool to save me, and quickly lifted me out of the water. Scared out of my mind at the near-death experience, I started crying. My mom had come over from the bleachers, wrapped me in a towel and hugged me close. No longer excited about swimming lessons, I begged to go home. Mom agreed.
It took me a couple years before I was brave enough to go back to swimming lessons. The second round of beginner swim lessons was a total embarrassment. Helpful, but embarrassing. By that point I was tall enough to stand in the shallow end and have my head above water. This was the key piece for me to agree to go back to the GL death pool. While I was glad about this, it was embarrassing to be the oldest and tallest of the kids in the beginner class. Other kids my age were two or three levels beyond beginners.
Also, Julie, the same one that had pulled me out of the water, was the instructor. And boy, did she remember me.
The real kicker? I failed beginner swimming lessons, because I wasn't consistent in breathing right in freestyle. At that point I told my parents I was a decent swimmer, and done with swimming lessons.
Until now.
