My Ph.D. In Swimming

The Gentlemanly Farmer has always fancied himself a bit of a swimmer.

Not the Mark-Spitz-Munich-Eight-Gold-Medals kind, but probably the Jason-Lezak-Pretty-Good-In-His-Own-Way kind. I always pitched in at school, almost always in the top three (even on those medley relay teams when I was forced to go up against the best swimmer in school because I was the only one on the team that could do the true dolphin kick in the butterfly, only I did it very slowly compared to this best swimmer, and even though I would get crushed by him, often entering with a length lead and leaving behind by a length, the team itself almost always finished in the top three). My only regret was that I never fully learned how to execute the flip-turn with the requisite amount of insouciant panache expected of someone like myself.

Now that I found myself in the middle of semi-retirement, I decided to give swimming the old semi-retired try, and proceeded to sign up for my “Introduction to Swim” class. I was told by the nice big American person at the nice big American front desk at my nice big American sporting club, that since I was going to be swimming after a long time I should take the class. Perhaps I was labouring under the misconception that all one needed to swim was a body of water and a swimming costume, or perhaps I was too intimidated by my nice big American sporting club, but whatever the reason, I took her up on her offer, and decided to gently try this “Introduction to Swim” class.

Since I had this fair amount of time in my semi-retirement, I decided to do some gentle research to make sure I had the proper equipment. In my limited experience nice big American leisure activities usually needed nice big American pieces of equipment, even if said nice big American leisure activities looked deceptively simple on the surface (including such apparently not-quite commonplace activities like running, bicycling, and, um apparently, swimming).

I was correct. In order to even begin swimming I needed a pair of performance swimming shorts, a specific blend of materials that descended directly from the Gods themselves, Lycra, Nyla, Spandex. After which I needed eyewear, what are referred to by the populace as swimming goggles, with a low profile to reduce my drag as I cut through the water like those sharks I am deathly afraid of, an ultra-mirrored coating to reduce glare (and wrinkles), all topped off with a carbon-neutral footprint (and environmentally-friendly goggle solution, anti-fog spray, a small waterproof bag to hold it all in). Finally, I needed a swim cap (one that set off a debilitating John-or-Paul type decision between Silicone and Lycra).

Lo (and perhaps even behold) I was ready to venture forth into the nice big American summer day, armed with the equipment and the requisite self-confidence (and knowledge necessary to operate such complex equipment like swim shorts, goggles, and cap gleaned from careful research and internet instructional videos) required to take up the fine sport of swimming and continue this journey to my improved self. I checked in with the nice big American person at the nice big American front desk, changed into my spiffy swimming ensemble in the nice big American changing rooms, and strode out into the nice big American swimming area.

This was going to be easy.

In front of me lay a gaggle of retired professionals. They may have been (semi) retired like me but they also had a few decade headstart on me. I ambled over to the instructor, and nonchalantly (blithely even) introduced myself, ready to be wrapped up in the warm embrace of her amazement as I outswam, outshone, and outeverythinged the gaggle of elderly retired professionals gingerly dipping themselves in the nice big American swimming pool.

I was unprepared for what happened next.

The instructor looked at me with an expression disturbingly akin to contempt (distaste even). Do you have paddles?

I was taken aback. Paddles? Madam, I do not plan to canoe, I told her firmly, I plan to swim.

Yes, definitely, contempt and distaste. Swim paddles, do you have swim paddles?

No, I said, my self-confidence (and knowledge) beginning to retreat from the nice big American pool, I did not realise that I needed swim paddles to swim in a swimming pool.

The Contempt And Distaste continued, unabated by my weak parry (or was it a thrust?): Do you have a pull buoy (Pool Boy? Do I look like I own a pool, much less a Pool Boy?)? Do you have nose plugs? Do you have ear plugs? Do you have fins?

Fins? Do I have fins? My dear Madam, I may be many things, many, many things, the one thing I am not, however, is a fish. Therefore, I am sad to say, I do not have fins.

She sighed and directed my attention to the nice big American whiteboard beside the nice big American swimming pool under the nice, big American sunshine. It was filled with all manners of notations. Little acronyms, followed by numbers, followed by letters. You see the “p” (lowercase, subscript), CAD asked, that means “paddles.” The “f” is for “fins,” “b” is for “buoy.” Boy? No buoy, as in pull buoy. Pool Boy? And so on, and so forth.

I was shrinking faster than all those jokes about men hitting cold water dressed in nothing but swim shorts. This is an introductory class, am I correct? Yes. Perhaps you can introduce me to the flip-turn? No. Why? Because you don’t have the nose and ear plugs to keep the water from getting into your lungs.

Sigh…

I had to salvage some shred of my self-dignity now that the self-confidence (and knowledge) had disappeared. At the very least I knew that I could swim. I was always Top Three, that couldn’t disappear completely, could it? I looked over at the gaggle of ERPs and didn’t see anyone with the kind of pure dolphin kick butterfly stroke that haunted my boyhood swimming dreams, and decided to show CAD that she had perhaps underestimated me. I was going to do this little exercise, the one with all the nice big American notations on the nice big American whiteboard, beside the nice big American swimming pool, underneath the nice big American summer sky.

Sure, she said, knock yourself out, but…

There is always a but.

…you have to swim over there.

Over there?

Yes, in the beginner lane.

SD, too, was beginning to disappear, and I dove into the lane before it could abandon me completely. I cut through the water like the sharks I was terrified of. I purred along, barely leaving a wake in my, um wake, determination, anger, resilience fuel in my tank against the gaggle of ERPs. Surely CAD would change her mind after she saw me eat the ERPs up? Surely she would be amazed at my raw talent, my Top Three potential, take me under her wing and teach me the flip turn? Surely…

And that’s when the taps began.

Gently at first. Then more insistent. Finally a tidal wave engulfing and drowning SD.

The ERPs tapped my feet, as one by one they passed by me, like those sleek European performance machines sliding past my nice big American car.

I finished the workout and gathered my things. CAD walked over to me, and asked me if everything was all right. CAD was beginning to give way to the dreaded FSFY (Feel Sorry For You), and I managed to mumble something along the lines of I thought this was an Introduction to Swim class.

Masters Swim, she corrected me.

I’m sorry?

Masters Swim, this is an Introduction to Masters Swim class.

It all fell into place then. It was a mistake, of the honest kind. CAD had no right to fling her dissatisfaction at me. In fact, I was to be commended. I had not used her fancy little letters (lowercase, subscript), I had not utilised these paddles, and fins, and pool boys? no pull buoys, and I had somehow, against unspeakable obstacles, managed to complete the workout. SD, SC (and K) had all reappeared, like magic, and were standing tall underneath the nice big American summer sky.

In that case Madam, you may as well give me a Ph.D., because I just completed your little Masters workout.

And it was then that CAD finally gave way to FSFY. She shook her head and walked away before delivering the final blow.

That was just the warmup.