There are two vastly different narratives recounted about water. One set takes place in ancient Egypt, land fed by the Nile. It tells of lovers swimming to meet in secret, children diving for fun on a hot afternoon, fishermen braving crocodiles to free their nets. The other collection takes place in the kingdom of Sumer, the land between two life-giving rivers — the Tigris and the Euphrates. Here, water represents death and violence, heroes drown while gasping for breath, and the ocean is only crossable by the gods.
I remember my first attempts to swim as a child. Pummeled by pounding surf, I inhaled saline, my body tumbling like desert weed until I skinned my knees on cut glass on a rough beach. It would take many, many years before I attempted to learn how to swim again. On the cusp of adulthood, I was finally forced to take lessons at a pool, discovering for the first time my body’s ability to float naturally on its back, my head tilted until my hairline felt the kiss of chlorinated water.
In the ocean safety and danger are porous states. Entangled in the waves, I try to recall the skills of my fish ancestors even as my awkward limbs flail in the fluctuating current. I pop up my face, take an elongated breath, hold. I lever forward, I glide. I repeat, until my brain stops concentrating on the steps and relaxes. I notice the whirl of the tide, hear the laughter of splashing children, sniff the charring of fish somewhere along the sands, taste the brine of life. Each scene is a panel in an endlessly shifting tapestry. I feel myself a speck in this vast fluidity. Swimming back to shore, I marvel at how effortlessly the water supports my weight, but cannot be held by me even as it enters through my skin, becomes a part of me.
The smell of the pool is not the aroma of the ocean. Its color is distinct too. There is an assured monotony to the marked out lanes, a narrowing focus in reaching one end to the other, a sterility permeating through the disinfected waters. Swimming here is a mindless activity akin to showering. Within the rectangular concrete limits the brain flits from thought to thought, blossoms ingenious whimsical ideas. Like everything human made, there is the illusion of safety inside a pool, the mirage that one might subjugate the power of water.
Being in the ocean strips all of that deception. Regardless of mastering all the strokes, the use of flotation devices, the presence of lifeguards, swimming in open water is an act of abandonment. It requires me to fully embrace uncertainty and respect water’s dominance over my physical capabilities. Each time I fail spectacularly. It’s not normal, jumping into the unknown, arms open wide, bracing for the impact. Still, there is something about riding those waves, floating above that depth, watching their ever-evolving variations: I can’t get enough.
Swimming for me is a testing of boundaries. I’m always initially reluctant to enter the water. As I push through my tentacled fears — how far from land can I venture? What’s the largest wave I can handle? How long can I stay underwater? — I feel connected. I imagine all the creatures in all the bodies of water churning their bodies through the currents, floating together as the waves lift us up.
Bespoke Traveler Note:
Diana Nyad ruminates on perseverance, learning from failure, and swimming as a community activity in her memoir “Find A Way,” recounting her successful journey from Cuba to Florida. Available at your local library or bookstore.
Thank you for listening. “Taking the Plunge” was written and narrated by Atreyee Gupta. For more details, head to the website at www.bespoketraveler.com.
