"If it's not sinking, it's swimming"

I decided to sabotage my perfectly peaceful life with swimming lessons at the age of 36. I had tried the same trick at 31 and 28, without any noteworthy results. Undeterred by false starts of the past and a fear of water, I signed up for a 15-day swimming camp. That decision was prompted by the unlikely convergence of three elements. Geography. The pool was a two-minute drive from my house. Isolation. The complex was bereft of any human apart from the coach and one other woman, who like me was out to test the laws of buoyancy. And costume. I could still squeeze myself into the swimming outfit I had bought eight years ago.

Delightfully, the previous stints had not been complete washouts. Procedural memory enabled me to hold my breath under water, kick my legs, and stay afloat. I could cover short distances, but I lived cautiously on the side of the pool that said ‘3 FT’, grazing against the tiled edges so that I could haul myself up if needed. I managed the push-off, the flutter-kick, the breathing.

Only my arms misbehaved. They were flat and floppy, unable to make the full 360 degree rotation with vigour. The coach offered several suggestions. Showed videos from Youtube on his phone. Jumped into the water to demonstrate. But my arm action remained deficient.

On day 11, the coach, frustrated, pulled me aside. He made me stand in a corner and practise spinning only my arms. It felt like punishment, as if I had been asked to write a 150-line imposition.

“Pull the water,” he barked.

I hit the water with my arms, like a child throwing a tantrum.

The men’s coach came over. The two men discussed something in Kannada. I was sure my comical ineptitude was the topic.

The arms got worse.

I came home that day, my chest singed from embarrassment, and shed hot tears.

I raged against everything and everyone.

My father — who made no effort to teach his children to swim despite being an expert swimmer himself.

My mother — who sent us to singing classes, dance classes, chess lessons on the off chance that she would discover a hidden genius in her progeny, but missed a more mundane and vital life skill.

My husband — who had spent summer breaks splashing in the family pond and learnt to swim as a happy by-product, oblivious to the effort required in learning a new skill.

My body — the disobedience of my limbs that had never done anything more athletic than stretching in a big, fat yawn.

My pathological need to check boxes off self-improvement checklists — learn to drive, grow abs, convert my social unease into sparkling, fluid conversation. Why couldn’t I be content owning my shortcomings?

By evening, I calmed down and took matters into my own hands. Googled YouTube videos of the front crawl and matched them against the video of me swimming. Read articles that broke down the movement step by step. Asked my husband for suggestions. His stirring advice was “Keep at it”.

I practised on dry land. Lay on the edge of the bed, circling my arms, touching the floor with each turn. My son assumed this was a new game I’d just invented. He lay on the other end of the bed and started doing the same. We giggled. I felt better.

The next day, I went back to class and did the best I could. There was no magical transformation and I still couldn’t cover more than a few feet. But I was calm and resolute.

While we were walking back to the changing rooms, the coach said, “Your arm action was better today, but it’s still not a full circle.”

“I know. But at least I’m moving forward.”

“Yes, but it’s taking more effort than it should. You’ll never be able to swim long stretches with this action.”

I tried to look sufficiently concerned about this.

The camp wound up, my arms continued to be half-hearted and the coach abandoned his hopes of correcting my technique. I came away feeling not fully accomplished but not entirely incapable either.

In the days since, I have gingerly stepped into the pools of clubs and holiday resorts that we have visited occasionally. Two or three times a year; mostly to validate the time and money spent on the camp.

I have hardly gone beyond what I learnt in class. In fact, when someone asks me if I know how to swim, I’m not sure how to respond. I need various controls to perform. Caveats like ‘Only in a pool’. ‘Only at four feet depth.’ ‘Only along the edges.’ Does this even qualify as swimming?

But then I remind myself that I had coped with 15 days of diarrhea before the class, overcame the mortification of attempting a lesson at 36 that should have been mastered at six, and broken the inertia and complacency of my body and mind.

So what if I won’t qualify for the state championships or have a career as a lifeguard? Or never be the good Samaritan who leaps off a bridge to save a drowning child? So, what if I look like I am jumping off the Titanic and being pursued by a bloodthirsty shark at the same time? That’s fine. If it is not sinking, it is still swimming.