Swimming

For the last few nights, I have been talked into going for a swim in a pool adjacent to the Atlantic ocean. The reason it has taken some arm twisting is because my Dad's partner C goes swimming after dinner, in the dark, around eight or nine o'clock.

C talks me into joining her to keep her company and to keep her motivated. I acquiesce because I know she will enjoy the company and because I know I can use the exercise.

Recently, our weather here on the east coast of southern Florida has been dominated by the low pressure system Noel. It is in the Bahamas right now. Winds here in the Boca area have peaked at 50 and 60 miles per hour. During the day, it is around 35 mph, but today up to 40 and 45 mph.

During the days, our windows facing the ocean whistle. Today I got annoyed at the constant low-grade whine and C said, "Well, on the sailboat it would be the same." A humbling comment to a sailor.

At night, after dinner and a couple glasses of wine, the last thing in the world I want to do is go down to a pool and do laps. I hate laps. That's why I hate jogging and that's why I have never done laps in a pool.

But ... I go down with her.

Down at the pool, the wind ripples the water. Doing the breast stroke is not easy because wavelets lap against my mouth. And since C likes to swim for at least 45 minutes, after a while I begin to feel my neck cramping into its backed-up position.

Time to dive from one end to the other.

I suck in a satchel full of air into my lungs and duck straight and long into the water; my hands straight out ahead like the figurehead of my body's hull. And instantly:

Quiet.

Absolute quiet.

The wind is somewhere else, but not here in this dampened quiet. I have escaped the commotion. Here, down below, it is quiet.

I play with this quiet. I stroke long and full. And propel myself through it.

I come up for air and then dive under again. This time ... languishing. Hanging. Sinking, rising, floating.

Up for air again and then back down into the womb. This time gently "frogging" along, feeling the water glide off my thighs, wondering if the sensation is erotic or fetal, or in some perverse way: both.

Up for air again. And every time I come up for air, it is into the harsh wind. The rushing noise of urgency. The wavelets punishing my face for escaping.

I know there is something symbolic about all of this. I know it has to do with sleep and death and escape. For me, sex is an escape, and thus perhaps the association with the erotic feelings. Sleep is the only time we don't think we hear, and hence that association. And death, well, it is the ultimate escape.

The only reason I have to eventually come up to the surface is because my lungs cannot stand the lack of air. I try to push them. They heave in and out. And when they are doing that, I notice I am no longer enjoy the quiet, but struggling against it.

That is when I need to let the quiet go. And submit to the noise.