A Swimming Stitch

Early Morning Barton Springs Swim Report, 4/25

I swam entirely in the dark this morning; I had promised to take one of my kids out to breakfast and so arrived early. By early I mean 5:10, not 5:30. As I swam in the dark I thought about swimming in daylight, or through sunrise. Just lately I’ve been fixated on how the surface of the water looks different above and beneath, depending on the weather. Only recently have I noticed how the little rumpled wavelets the wind makes are visible underneath. The pool’s surface isn’t exactly a thing, separate from water and air: it’s where the water stops. Or maybe (depending on which direction you’re going) it’s where the air stops. It feels like an object as I swim.

When I talk about language in class I talk about surface tension, but that doesn’t come into play while I swim. I am always at the top of the pool. I don’t swim deep, I don’t jump off the diving board, I am merely a dull needle, above, below, sewing a line across the pool with my head as I breaststroke. A basting stitch, a running stitch, I seem to remember it’s called from Home Ec class.

I’ve told myself that one of these days—perhaps by the end of May—I will jump from the diving board.