Under the Bubble

Under the bubble, there is an old 25 meter swimming pool. It use to be a seasonal open- air pool for years, opening around Memorial Day, closing around Labor Day. A noisy no -frills place, with a couple of diving boards. Liability issues required the removal of the diving boards, and up went a green twisty slide for the kids. I can hear the splashing and water chatter of the place in my head. My kids taking lessons there, standing on rickety aluminium tot docks.

A couple of years ago, due to popularity and pressure from swimming afficionados, they put a large bubble structure over it during the cold months to make it an all season pool. Being a swimmer, I was curious what it would be like to swim there but for the last couple of decades, I had steeped myself in a terrain workout life: running in the forests and boot camping in a small workout room with my women-folks, so no agua for me. I was grateful that a good friend of mine, who has been injured, urged me to come swim with her, back to the local public pool.

Stripping down in the cement floored facility, showering under the presta button bursts of almost warm enough spray, and then walking wet outside to the bubble entrance, with air-lock doors. First open, then close door one. Then open and close door two, just like the butterfly pavillions. Larvae about to sprout wings, or rather, gills.

Sliding into the water, not entirely graceful-like, I am delighted that the water is a delicious temperature. Not too warm, not too cold, just like Goldilock’s porridge. I look around at the other old bone seniors in the lanes. We all look like troll dolls now, with our rolls and wrinkles. But we are all still moving, and we are all grateful for that. When we see each other closely, with our cetacean eyes, we acknowledge without words, the scars, the surgeries, the imbalances, the wobbly bits. We are all here, breathing.

We are swimming! We are free from some of gravity’s tyranny! Pushing off, the body remembers a time of effortlessness, stretching out into a streamlined form. Slow and steady exhale, the marvelous stream of bubbles, rolling from the core to the side, inhale. Sweet oxygen!

Some kind of rhythm is established. Some pattern of breathing takes shape. It is primordial. It is Zen. It is watery bliss. It is a gift.