Swimming Lessons

When I was two I learned to swim and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. One morning each week my mother would drive me to the local pool. In the beginning, I went willingly as I wasn’t yet aware of the horrors involved with learning to swim. Each day I would be coaxed into the pool by an enormous woman. I was quite sure that she couldn’t possibly be any more capable of swimming than myself. Nevertheless, her feet touched the bottom, whereas my feet were many years from performing such a feat. At first, I trusted her to keep my head above water at all times. As is well known to all children who have yet to become adept in the swimming arts, certain death usually follows submergence. I certainly had yet to reach this skill level. It didn’t occur to me that such things were necessary at this stage. The first few lessons consisted almost entirely of rather relaxing bubble-blowing and flutter kick practice. I grew quite accustomed to this rather painless lifestyle. I believe it was on the fifth day when the trouble began. Someone, somewhere must have given the order to dunk my head into the water. Of course, I wasn’t forewarned that I had reached this proficiency level. Day five began as usual, with some warm-up kicks. Much to my chagrin, the enormous woman lifted me out of the water and hurled my flailing form into the abyss (later to be known as the "shallow end"). Upon breaching the surface, I flung my limbs about as best as I could. I knew I must reach the stairs or else this horrid lady might just throw me again. Gasping for air, I reached my seemingly impossible destination. I clambered out of the water and bolted for the pool entrance. Alas, this freedom was closed to me, for I was not yet capable of reaching the gate’s latch. Each lesson following was fairly similar, fleeing the adults as best I could. Inevitably, they would capture me and lead me to my fate: the big lady in the pool. These days I swim very well, but I’ll always be aware of the horrors of learning to swim.