Phone tucked into the strap of my red one-piece bathing suit, mask and goggles on, I drag the five gallon bucket outside. I check one more time to make sure my phone won't fall into the bucket of calcium hypochloride. It's secure between my sweaty shoulder and strap. This was my least favorite part of being a sophomore in high school and it is my least favorite part of being a swimming instructor. Chemistry. I adjust the mask and goggles, put the gloves on and take one more breath of fresh air before unscrewing the lid... My phone rings. Shoot. Right glove off, mask down. I answer.
"Your first student is running late and may not be there at all."
Ten minutes later, with the pool's chlorine level adequately restored, my phone rings again.
"He won't make it today."
I look over the empty pool with newfound anticipation. two minutes later, I am in the water. I swim the obligatory freestyle down and back one time. Then I just float. There is a window above me and I look up at the sky. I breathe deeply and relax. This is why I love swimming. I float suspended by water for a timeless while, then take a breath and flip over, slinking my way to the bottom of the pool.
The water looks like glass from below, and if you can manage to hold your breath long enough, the ripples start to slow above you and you find yourself in an inverse world only limited by the need for oxygen. The sky above and the outline of the pool start to seem like a dream that you look at through a lens at the eye doctor's. "One or two?" she'd ask, and you'd yell out the number that caused you to see THIS. It's all so clear and yet it ripples in the movement of the water ceiling above.
My lungs burn for air and I must heed their calling. I emerge or submerge into the space full of air (that doesn't really feel like reality from down here) and take a breath. I am surprised to find that I am panting. Newly oxygenated, I return to the world where air looks like silver umbrella-shaped bubbles that flip and turn playfully to the intersection where air and water cannot mix.
I lay there in watery bliss and immeasurable time until my lack of breathing reminds me that somewhere, a clock is ticking.
"Your first student is running late and may not be there at all."
Ten minutes later, with the pool's chlorine level adequately restored, my phone rings again.
"He won't make it today."
I look over the empty pool with newfound anticipation. two minutes later, I am in the water. I swim the obligatory freestyle down and back one time. Then I just float. There is a window above me and I look up at the sky. I breathe deeply and relax. This is why I love swimming. I float suspended by water for a timeless while, then take a breath and flip over, slinking my way to the bottom of the pool.
The water looks like glass from below, and if you can manage to hold your breath long enough, the ripples start to slow above you and you find yourself in an inverse world only limited by the need for oxygen. The sky above and the outline of the pool start to seem like a dream that you look at through a lens at the eye doctor's. "One or two?" she'd ask, and you'd yell out the number that caused you to see THIS. It's all so clear and yet it ripples in the movement of the water ceiling above.
My lungs burn for air and I must heed their calling. I emerge or submerge into the space full of air (that doesn't really feel like reality from down here) and take a breath. I am surprised to find that I am panting. Newly oxygenated, I return to the world where air looks like silver umbrella-shaped bubbles that flip and turn playfully to the intersection where air and water cannot mix.
I lay there in watery bliss and immeasurable time until my lack of breathing reminds me that somewhere, a clock is ticking.
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