The Swimming Lesson

Travelers’ Tales: A Mother's World - Journeys of the Heart
Copyright© 1998 Travelers’ Tales, Inc.

By Denise M. Spranger

The bright yellow triangles of rubber fins dangled loosely from his hand. The strap of his mask trapped wisps of blonde hair above the snorkel hanging from his left ear; it knocked into his cheek with the rhythm of our steps down the sidewalk. Just at the end of the lawn and across the street were the impossibly turquoise waters of the Mexican Caribbean. As we trudged through the salted heat of island summer, they glimmered, tempting as mirage. Uriah , at nine, kept several strides ahead of us. It seemed that the sea had cast a line and hooked him to it. Teresa and I tried to quicken our pace as the intensity of blue reeled him in.

It was the first time that this boy of the desert would know the freedom of a tropical ocean. Until now, his brief encounters with the sea were of rolled pants legs and hurried feet as he splashed with his grandfather on Oregon shores. Here, no thunder of surf would darken the sky blue waters; no flash of cold, no swirling tides, would warn him of foreboding dangers. Today, at last, the ocean was his. By the way his sandals slapped the pavement in an eager march, I could already tell that he knew it.

Yet I worried a little. This is why I wore not one mask, but two. One was the clear lens pushed up on my forehead. The other, merely the adult attempt to cloak anxiety with a glaze of excitement. The opaque blue that stretched before us was not a swimming pool. There were no numbers, painted in black, marking depth on concrete edges. No orange rings, like huge candy life savors, would stand sentinel on steaming walls. I wondered how he might really feel when that sandy floor gave way; when his eyes would drink from the vast blue cup that the earth held to his lips.

Uriah is not my son, but he’s come closer to being that than anyone else ever will. When Teresa and I fell in love over five years ago, I found myself plunged into the imposing currents of shared motherhood. I proved to be a fearfully resistant swimmer. With the weight of a four year old clutching at the loose sleeves of my time, I struggled with the loss of buoyancy. For years, it seemed, I gasped indignantly with the premonition of drowning.

We had become close, nevertheless, in spite of my floundering. Children have a way of etching themselves into the hardest of surfaces. When I looked at the stone upon which I stood, I now saw that amidst the spray painted, spontaneous graffiti of my life, his name was also written. Just that past autumn we had found a common interest; it was one that amazed us both.

Chasing a long held desire in the improbable environment of a desert town, I had signed up for classes in scuba diving. Though tactful friends suggested more accessible sports, there was one guy that understood, without question, my determination. After dinner, on the couch, we would marvel together at the underwater photos in my diving magazines. When I finally completed my course, making my open water dives off the shores of Key West , it was Uriah that I called first with the news of my success. Standing at the pay phone, hair still dripping, engulfed in my wet suit which felt strikingly similar to being robed in a giant sponge, his voice on the other end of the phone line was ample reward. More gratifying, even, than the newly laminated certification card awaiting me on the counter. “Really, you did it? You graduated? You’re a real scuba diver now? Wow, that’s cool!” An hour later, hefting my sodden equipment, I also carried a “Let’s Dive” T- shirt, size small, and the matching cap from the dive shop. The visor swung to the back, as is the fashion, it rode, even now, upon his head.

It was the dream of learning to dive that made him finally consent to swimming lessons. Teresa and I had encouraged him to take them for years. Though careful never to pressure him with unnecessary demands, his natural love of the water was becoming hindered by the fear of instruction. That winter, sitting on the white resin chair, slippery with chlorinated water, I would seek out the blonde head bobbing in the farthest lane as his teacher yelled out encouragement. On the eve of his final class, I bought him the fins. We also promised that one day, late in the school year, we would take him to the sea.

Now, as the three of us slipped off shoes and laid out towels, I hoped that those lessons were enough. Not possessing mask, snorkel and fins, Teresa would wait for us on the sand. I would take him out for his first swim, alone. His eyes widened as he tested the water. “It’s so warm,” he said, looking up at me with surprise. “That’s right, just like I told you, pal,” I answered, handing him the bottle of liquid that we sprayed on our masks to keep them clear. As we rinsed our lenses in the salt water, I wished that clearing my internal view also had such a simple, sudsy solution.

I did not expect him to falter, yet I realized that I must be prepared for it. Even as a confident swimmer, many years before, I had felt the rush of vertigo when, for the first time, I donned a mask in the ocean. I remembered well that moment when the floor dropped away, leaving me in unexpected flight a hundred feet above. I knew I could save him if he panicked out there. Yet if he fought me, it would demand my full strength.

I prayed for that assurance that I supposed real mothers felt. Possessing the power of giants as they lifted the car that trapped their child underneath; the psychic instinct that sent them running to the street just before a small foot stepped from the curb. I could never truly attain that ferociously primal wisdom with which mothers of all species protect their young. By his side, instead, was just a slightly sunburned woman that helped him buckle his fin straps. A woman almost shocked to find how much she loved him.

We glided out into the water as gulls soared above us. Stalks of fluted coral brushed our knees. The sun played the only melody in that silent world. It lit the bright bodies of fish as they darted, iridescent, in the gardens of sea plants swayed by tide. For awhile we sailed over the shallows in this way, pausing for the tail of a lobster peeking under rock; the black spines of a sea urchin bristling in a miniature cavern. Yet soon our wanderings led us farther out; I turned my head to see him just as the shelf of land disappeared. Below us, a universe, deeper than midnight . It rolled, whispered, beckoned. Without hesitation, he spread his arms to fly, at ease as the clouds above us.

As the round body of a parrot fish appeared forty feet below, he tapped my shoulder and pointed. His face was exuberant in the circle of glass; blue with water light, his eyes were smiling. We followed that gleaming fish for nearly an hour, stopping only to wave to the figure watching from the shore. The love of my life, his mother.

“Maybe one day when he’s older we’ll dive here together,” I thought, even as I reminded myself that adolescence would warrant less cumbersome companions; command different voyages that his heart would follow. Yet as we swam back in the gentle tug of tide, I felt the gift of a truth, a lesson. Though what flowed between us was not the voice of blood, it was the quick, blue pulse of water.