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The water slips over my head, cool, chlorinated.

Slightly…

Salty.

Which is strange because I’ve never been in a salty, indoor lap swimming pool before and I’ll just ignore the fact that there’s currently a class of fifteen 5-8 year old children on the other side of the floating divider.

I’m trying to love swimming.

And it is working. Bit by bit, it gets easier and I hit new benchmarks and it feels really nice. I have no idea if I’m doing it right or if I look like a complete fool swimming laps endlessly back and forth, but it feels good.

It feels right.

I kick off the side and before I realize it, I melt into the pool.

—

I’m suspended in water.

It’s a brilliant blue.

Above, I can see the light of the sun shining beyond the surface, like stars exploding and contracting in symphony.

Below, the water disappears into darkness, and if on one side we have an ocean of stars, then on the other is an abyss of black holes consuming each other, lazy, impassive.

I turn myself into a stone, collecting my weight about me. I try to sink to the floor so that I can walk across it, but it’s impossible. Try as I might, I can’t seem to reach the ground. The water repels me, keeping me hovering just shy of the bottom.

I turn my eyes up, kicking my legs back and forth. I reach my hands towards the light above. My fingers graze the surface, for a moment blessed by the warmth of the sun.

Here, suspended between heaven and hell—

Here, in this silent, endless blue—

Here, alone, as the bubbles rise from my lips—

Here, in this suburban backyard swimming pool—

I’m 6 years old and I’m drowning and I’m going to die, here.

—

He saunters into the gym, making sure to wave and say hello to each person by name.

It’s Thursday afternoon, which means it’s pool day for him. Just as it is every Thursday afternoon. And every Friday afternoon. And every Saturday afternoon. And every afternoon, really. Since when, I don’t know. And until when— probably until he can’t swim anymore.

This retired, grandfatherly, slightly pot-bellied Korean immigrant man is the unofficial mascot of the 24 Hour Fitness pool room.

He knows every single employee at the gym, chatting them up whenever he checks in at the front desk and whenever he leaves. He teases the staff about the pool being too cold for him and asks them about school, vacation plans, family, you name it. Once he finally makes it past the counter, he’ll change into his swim trunks and walk into the pool room where he’ll greet all the other regulars. He’ll then spend the next 3 hours alternating between doing pool aerobics, soaking in the hot tub, sweating in the sauna and getting to know anyone willing to share an ear or a story.

There’s a whole group of them really— retired folks who’ve turned the 24 Hour Fitness pool room into their own little social club. They come in sometime between noon and 2pm and will stay for hours, chatting and exercising leisurely. Besides him, there’s a Taiwanese woman, a Vietnamese man, a Chinese man, and an Eastern European woman. There’s also a middle-eastern man he doesn’t like— they argue about politics and society and generally avoid each other as much as possible given the constraints of the room.

We talk every time I come to the pool, and over the course of 2 months become something of friends. I practice my Korean with him sometimes, and he practices his Vietnamese on me— words and phrases he’s learned from the Vietnamese man in his group, which largely consists of things like “dep gai” which means “beautiful woman”. But mostly we speak in English.

I learn little things about him. He, like many Korean immigrants, ran a dry cleaning business until he retired a few years ago. Now he lives with just his wife as his children have all grown up and moved away. One of his daughters is married to a producer of some TV show— he’s obviously very proud. His wife often wants to visit Korea to see her family members who still live there, but he is loathe to do so. He says Korea is old fashioned and the society is oppressive. He much prefers being in America and instead leaves his wife to travel alone while he stays behind, continuing his daily pool club meetings.

In return, I share with him little details about my travels, my current status, how I’m applying for jobs, hoping to work in LA or SF. How I am not married and not dating. How I live at home with my parents while I try to find work.

He nods encouragingly, telling me it’s important to find a good job.

But towards the end of the second month, he begins to prod me about my lack of work and dating prospects.

And a few weeks later, my gym membership ends.

I never say goodbye.

I can only imagine that his pool social club continues.

That today, like every other day, he’ll show up at the pool at 1pm. He’ll walk back and forth through the water, doing aerobics and swinging his arms, and when he gets tired, he’ll sit in the hot tub for a bit before walking a few laps around the perimeter of the pool. And then, after a few hours of chitchatting and exercising, he’ll pack up his things, change out of his swim trunks, and say goodbye to the gym staff, completing another day, another cycle, ready for tomorrow.

—-

It’s so fucking hard.

Swimming is so fucking hard and I struggle so much to get fucking nowhere.

I stand up in the middle of the 25 yard long pool and pant desperately for air. I pull off my goggles and run a hand over my face, clearing it of excess water.

Thank god, the pool is only 5 feet deep at the far end and 3 feet at the other, because it turns out I can only make it about 10 yards before I’d drown to my death otherwise.

I’ve taught myself how to ride a bike. I’ve run an ultramarathon, unaided. I learned to trad climb on lead. I’ve cycled from SF to LA on a mountain bike without clips and I’ve climbed + hiked for over 20 hours in one push.

I’d like to think I’ve done a lot of hard things and somehow swimming 25 yards is fucking impossible.

And yet—

And yet—

I pull the goggles over my eyes and push forward. I bring my body horizontal to the floor, forcing muscles to relax, kicking my legs and scraping my arms through the water in rhythm. I lift my head to make a frantic gasp for air before bringing forth my arm again.

I just want to make it a little further than last time.

I think I could make it if I could just—

—

Small, brightly colored fish weave around the legs of the pier.

They vary in shape and size. Some with sharply pointed fins that curve back, more triangular in nature. Others oblong, made of gentle curves and slopes.

I kick my flippered legs to move closer, careful to avoid the sharp barnacles that cover the wood. I’ve already been cut by them once, and I’d like to not do it again.

I love just watching the fish. They’re nothing spectacular, like what you see in nature shows. There’s no giant turtles here, no stingrays or tiger sharks or really any fish I can name. Even so, these nameless, relatively forgettable fish are nice to observe. They move gracefully. I try to follow them as they swim to and fro, but they’re too nimble for me and I fall behind, left in the open water.

The ocean here is lazy. Gentle. Warm.

I swim along, my snorkle tight around my face. I wonder how deep I can dive.

I decide to try.

I don’t know what I’m doing though, so water floods the air valve and I promptly choke on it. I blow hard through the mouthpiece to push the water out, and that seems to work.

Floating out here, not a person in sight, the sky so high above me and the ocean floor a mystery beneath the cloudy depths.

It’s really relaxing.

I forget that I don’t actually know how to swim, that without the snorkle and flippers, I’d drown to my death in minutes. I don’t know where this arrogance comes from, but somehow it feels like it’ll be okay.

I dive again, pushing myself further into the cold darkness below.

I manage to not get water into the air valve this time.

I wonder if I can do a flip.