Contemplating the Deep End

Once you cross The Well, you'll never be the same.

I’ve heard people say that swimming is like riding a bicycle — once you learn how, you never forget. That may be true, but I wouldn’t know; I haven’t been in a pool in years.

I once loved the water. We spent many summer days playing with the hose, mainly as a means to cool off in the stifling heat of summer. But there were greater thrills in the water department that I was unaware of — lakes, streams, oceans, and, even better, municipal swimming pools.

In the spring before my sixth birthday, my mother signed me up for swimming lessons. I was elated, yet apprehensive. And that apprehension grew over the weeks leading up to the big day. By the time I got into my swimsuit and flip-flops, I was clinging to my towel for comfort. It was a short drive, and before I knew it, I was lined up with other terrified kids at the edge of what seemed to be a vast ocean inside the chain link fence at Dothan Recreation Center, facing my imminent demise with stoicism.

The water in The Well was bluer than the rest and appeared bottomless, or at least as deep as the Mariana Trench, although in reality it couldn’t have been more than 12 feet deep.

The problem wasn’t so much the water. We were was at the shallow end of the pool, a large rectangle with three-foot depths at the ends. The pool floor had a slight angle, dipping to a five-foot depth in the center of the pool. Even that was manageable.

The problem was The Well, a square extension off one of the long sides to accommodate the diving boards, one low and one high, soaring some 10 feet above the water line. There was a ladder to the top that doubled one’s anxiety with each rung. Stepping out to the business end conjured thoughts of walking the plank on a pirate ship.

The water in The Well was bluer than the rest and appeared bottomless, or at least as deep as the Mariana Trench, although in reality it couldn’t have been more than 12 feet deep.

It didn’t take long for the whispers to start. First came the unwelcome news that to pass the course, each kid had to get from one side of the The Abyss to the other, and I was already sure I’d fail to survive traversing the 20-odd-foot span. Whispers continued: “One kid dove in and never resurfaced.” “They keep giant eels in there; they live on the bottom.”

Older kids from the neighborhood were the swimming coaches — and the likely source of the whisper terror campaign — which did little to instill confidence. Kids teaching kids — what could go wrong?

Each day for a week, we learned to float, kick, and stroke with our arms. We were taught how to be comfortable with our faces in the water, although for some of us, that lesson never took.

At the end of the class on the last day, we were all taken to the edge of The Deep Part, and one by one, we were to jump in and swim to the other side. When my turn came, I wouldn’t get in the water.

The fourth summer was the charm.

I flunked out. I didn’t get a Red Cross Beginner Swimmer patch to be sewn on my swim trunks, and I would not be attending Intermediate Swimmer classes the next summer.

I was perfectly fine with that. “It’s OK, you’ll get it next summer,” Mother said, announcing that she’d already signed me up for next season’s beginner class. “You’ll give it another try,” she said. “You’re no quitter.”

Has she even met me?

So I went the next summer, and the next. The result was the same; I’d gotten competent with the basics, but my fear of the diving well disqualified me from moving forward.

The fourth summer was the charm. I finally got my Beginner Swimmer patch. And I was done, or so I thought. I later completed classes to earn the Lifesaving patch, although that Deep Blue Chasm haunts to this day.

I haven’t been in a pool in for at least 25 years. I doubt I can swim a stroke. I still don’t like the deep end, although I can bob and loll in the shallow part with the best of them.

That’s not to say I am averse to everything deep. We have a monthly book club created to take “a deep dive” into whatever text we’re reading. I’ve attended four online courses from Stanford University to learn more about the Grateful Dead, its culture, its music, and its undeniable influence on modern society. In that regard, I spend a great deal of time in The Deep End.

One last whisper: “If you ever cross The Well, you’ll never be the same.”

As it turns out, that one is true. Victors emerge from the depths with bolstered confidence. As the water evaporates from your body, much of the fear and apprehension evaporates with it.

If I ever get the urge to swim again — and I seriously doubt I will — perhaps I’ll begin from atop the high dive, staring into the gaping watery maw beneath me, just to get it out of the way.