To swim or not to swim, I asked myself at age 58 as I perused my community’s summer recreation catalog. The answer appeared under “Aquatics.” First program listed: “Adult Swim Lessons.”
All my life I had wanted to swim properly. I longed to learn the crawl stroke with correct breathing, that is, exhaling face down in the water and then, every other arm stroke, making a smooth turn of the head to catch air. I had always admired the splendid, young swimmers in the Olympics. In my dreams, I imitated the ease and beauty of their technique. I mean that literally. At some point, I began dreaming I was a great long-distance swimmer. When I woke, I felt in my whole being I could do it — had a lake or pool been nearby. Thus I decided to take swim lessons.
As a youth, I did swim. By age 15, I had taught myself to swim the crawl improperly: head high and dry as a head can be, my immersed body producing an enormous amount of drag. I swam neither far nor fast but became a superb hyperventilator. Dragging myself onto a raft, I would be as dizzy as a drunk.
At 16, I visited a friend’s summer cottage on a lake near Milwaukee. Their pier stood three feet above the water. Phil dove first. Not wanting to be regarded as a particular kind of poultry, I followed. Not too bad for my first belly flop, but I got over that quick. Into water 12 feet deep, I dove straight down and opened my eyes. At the bottom, I saw Phil’s treading legs above me. I sprang to the surface and with a few imperfect strokes reached the pier’s ladder. We dove countless times, and every time I dove straight down for the sake of my stomach.
In 1955, when I entered all-male Notre Dame, freshmen were required to prove their swimming proficiency. I expected to pass the swim test because, I believed, I had sufficient swimming and diving experience to warrant such confidence.
I was late for my test at Rockne Memorial Gymnasium. I undressed hurriedly, pulled on my well-worn suit, showered, then rushed to the pool. To my left was a subdued group of young men who obviously had failed their swim tests. They stared at me. I won’t be joining those flunkies, I thought.
Someone shouted, “Get that suit off!”
I looked at the man quizzically.
“Why?” I asked. “You’ve got yours on.”
Some of the flunkies snickered. An older, kinder voice stated the shamefully immodest rule: “No suits in Rock’s pool, kid.”
The shouter followed me to my locker. “Don’t open it; we don’t have time!”
I dropped my clean suit onto a dirty, damp concrete floor.
“Hurry up,” he said unpleasantly.
I walked out into the glare and gaze of two fully clad instructors and two dozen naked peers who, I suspected, were studying every inch of my buck-naked body. I wasn’t angry or humiliated; I just wanted to get into the water, fast.
“What I want you to do,” the shouter said, “is swim the crawl down, then the backstroke back. Got it?”
Standing at the edge of the pool, trying to look poised and confident in my nakedness, I mentally prepared for the swim. I’d do a shallow dive that would greatly impress the onlookers. I waited for some kind of signal and wondered, What did he just say?
“What are you waiting for?” the shouter asked.
“Oh, you want me to go?”
“Of course I want you to go!”
I thought maybe he’d blow his whistle. I’d seen that in a movie once.
Somewhat rattled, I belly flopped, forgoing the arrow-like racing dive I had envisioned. I swam my convoluted crawl: head high, swinging side to side, arms way over my head like I was waving at spectators, and my legs so low in the water no one could observe my desperate kick. But I seemed to be moving along quite well and in no time arrived at the deep end wall. I felt certain I had gained high marks.
The shouter loomed above me carrying a gigantic pole, like a pole-vaulter’s pole. What’s that for? I wondered.
“OK, now swim back on your back,” he said.
“My back?”
“Yeah, back on your back. Get going!”
My entire life I never swam on my back. Floating was nearly impossible, because everything sank, starting with my narrow feet and slender legs. Well, without further reflection, I made a tremendous push off the wall that sent me several yards out, at which point I began imitating (so I thought) the graceful arm movements of the swimming movie star, Esther Williams. Reaching the midpoint, however, I lost confidence. I forgot all about Esther and floundered wildly out of control but remained rational enough to know I was not making a very good impression on the judges. And just when I seemed to be going under for good, the pole appeared above me.
That pole and what I was compelled to do with it shattered my hopes for success.
“Grab it,” the shouter commanded.
Dragged like a played-out pike to the nearest corner of the pool, I suddenly realized my nakedness. In my exuberance to triumph, I had forgotten it.
“Get out,” the man shouted.
Obeying, I realized I had another problem. In my dripping birthday suit, I had to walk over to join the other flunkies. How could I maintain my dignity? I was standing in that classic pose of mortification: pigeon-toed with one foot curled over the other, my shoulders hunched inward, arms hanging stiffly such that my overlapping hands would, with an incredibly high degree of self-consciousness, cover my shy and shriveled privates. To maintain modesty, I’d have to hop like a kangaroo. That didn’t strike me as particularly cool, so I just rambled over, as naturally as I could manage, finding refuge among my fellow nudists, who mercifully enclosed me within their number. All of them had their hands folded over their privates just as I had done before I so boldly joined them.
Tom, a new friend from Chicago, stood next to me. The older instructor began to speak about the importance of mastering swimming.
“I thought you did pretty well,” Tom whispered.
“Thanks. That backstroke did me in.”
“Actually, when you were doing the crawl the instructor said, ‘Take a good look at that, boys. That’s exactly how you don’t want to swim.’”
“Really?” I asked, surprised.
“He seemed to think so. I thought you did OK.”
Obviously, Tom was neither swimmer nor judge.
Yet failing that swim test ensured my desire to swim properly, and it gave me a wonderful opportunity to learn, allowing me my entire freshman year if I needed it. I was sure that in Rock’s pool, I would master the crawl.
Then a cruel impediment befell me. I developed an earache. At first I thought it was a mild case of swimmer’s ear, but the pain worsened. It got so bad I skipped swim classes. Finally, with the worst pain I ever experienced, I visited the infirmary. The doctor prescribed penicillin. He advised me to quit swimming and see a specialist when I went home at Christmas. I was bitterly disappointed. The specialist told me not to swim for a year and, if I resumed, to wear earplugs.
Medically excused from the swim requirement due to my chronic ear infection, I was destined not to learn the crawl at Notre Dame. I did not take swimming lessons again for 17 years — not until I was 35. In between, I rarely went in the water, but sometime around age 30, I began having those wonderful, long-distance swim dreams.
We lived in a suburb that offered adult swim lessons. I enrolled immediately. An article in Sports Illustrated by James “Doc” Counsilman, the renowned swimming coach at Indiana University, inspired me to give it another try. Counsilman coached Mark Spitz, the Olympian who won seven gold medals at the 1972 games. The buoyant physiologist maintained that swimming the crawl should be as easy as taking a stroll. Oh, how I wished!
Our young instructor seemed serious and sincere in teaching our small, earnest group. We worked on coordinating our breathing with the arm strokes by standing in place. The instructor noted how well I synced my breathing with my strokes, but that lasted only so long as I stood in place. When I tried in the water, I struggled. After a few strokes, I went under and came up with a mouth and nose full of water. Nevertheless, I sensed that with time and practice I would get it.
Instead, what I got was a summer cold, which transformed into yet another impediment.
After several more lessons, I visited my doctor, who described my cold as the worst sinus infection of his career. He advised, “When you swim, for heaven’s sake, wear a nose clamp.”
With penicillin and time, my sinus infection went away. Sadly, so did my swimming.
Twenty-three years passed before I tried again. At 58, an age when many men struggle to maintain their inevitably declining golf game, I wondered if I should make one last effort to learn the crawl. I recalled my failures, but also my dream. Deep within, I felt a welling confidence that I could not just learn the crawl but master it.
I purchased goggles, earplugs and a nose clamp. Again, a small group of adults in their 30s and 40s showed up at the pool of our local high school. I was by far the oldest. Our young instructors, two college women, had swum competitively in high school.
During the first session, everyone had to demonstrate his or her ability — or lack thereof. Some could not do a single stroke. One woman expressed a lifelong fear of deep water. I mentioned I had wanted to learn the crawl all my life and realized I was running out of time.
When it was my turn to show what I could do, I swam as I always had: badly. One of the teachers told me to put my face in the water and breathe to the side that felt more comfortable. At 35, I had practiced breathing on my left. I tried that again but struggled. Then the teacher made a brilliant observation: “Your body seems to be rolling more naturally to the right. Try breathing on your right side.”
It was the greatest single piece of swimming instruction I ever received, the key to my learning and mastering the crawl. With my eyes, ears and nose protected, I’d have no medical impediment this time.
After several sessions, I swam with fairly good form. I was doing what I longed to do all my life. It was a beautiful feeling. Eventually, I mastered Esther’s backstroke as well. With swim fins, I gained tremendous propulsion. Swimming became as easy as taking a stroll.
So, it took me five decades, more off than on, to master the crawl and backstroke, but I had two decades to enjoy it. In those 20 years I swam hundreds of miles to nowhere, making friends along the way and enjoying excellent health.
In 2002, I joined a health club and committed to swim twice a week. A few years later, I swam a nonstop, half-mile crawl. Other club members complimented my form. Throughout that decade, I swam about 35 weeks a year. And, after a swim and shower, I felt like a young man. That never lasted long, but the sensation seduced me back into the pool time after time.
At age 80, I was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia, which weakened me. I stopped swimming, though my cancer eventually went into remission.
Sometimes I regret not mastering swimming when I was a boy, but who knows? Had I learned then, I might never have felt the desire to swim as an adult. I might never have known the late-in-life exhilaration of mastering the skill when so old. Learning late provided me the best cardiovascular exercise, youthful feelings and surprising friendships. All together an incomparable reward.
A graduate of the Program of Liberal Studies, Joseph Lewis Heil is the author of two novels: The War Less Civil and Judas in Jerusalem. He resides in suburban Milwaukee.