Okay, I have a new plan and it is called swimming at a new pool with some familiar faces and a new coach. So, even though I have to pay an additional fee on top of what I already pay monthly elsewhere, and even though it requires me to make a second trip across town after the initial one to the gym, I think it may be the ticket to greater happiness in the water. Can we really put a price on that?
Barry was the one who suggested I come on over and swim with the infamous Gene, who I have heard about for a year now. Honestly, I just didn't want to have to adjust my routine and shift everything around to accommodate a man out West at a different facility. I finally gave in this week and I am so glad I did-I liked Gene immediately. Maybe the word loved is even in order to describe my feelings of devotion for him, despite the fact he clearly hails from New York and has that awful accent. Maybe I am just attaching a superficial savior status to the man who I am certain is going to make me an accomplished swimmer and, more importantly, teach me how to love this sport.
It was raining when I showed up for workout on Tuesday. Gene was under an umbrella, pulling his little cheat sheet out to give us each individualized workouts. I think there might have been seven of us, including me. I even bought a new Speedo for the occasion because what can't a new outfit fix? Though it is two small, clingy pieces of blue and black and white, the suit did inspire me to swim a little more like a professional and believe me, I was all about business. I was there to make it count. Unlike Don, who yelled insults from the sidelines, Gene is kind and more diplomatic about technique. "You have a fairly decent stroke." He told me. "But you need to work on that entry and catch. You are allowing your thumb to enter the water before your fingers and that is a shoulder problem waiting to happen."
He went on to have me do tons and tons of drills and then some more drills. All I could think about by the end was getting out and getting my coffee. As I climbed up on deck, there was a familiar face looking at me, but I couldn't place him. This is a small town, or have I mentioned that? Then I remembered. Last week, while in the library with the kids, I received a call from Abbe. As I blabbed with her about meeting for spin that night, I realized a man was watching me very intently. Afraid it was one more person in this ridiculous town to tell me to get off my phone in an "inappropriate place" (its a library, come on!), I quickly hung up with her. The staring man surprised me, instead, by asking me, "Are you from California? I hate to peg you, but I couldn't help but listen to you, and you sound like you are from California." I think I looked at him blankly for a while, because he quickly offered me his hand, "Hi. I'm John. My wife and I moved here from Redondo Beach and I know a Californian when I hear one. What brought you here?"
Where to begin? Was this man a friend or foe? Could I tell him honestly my disparaging thoughts and great disappointment or should I smile politely and, in agreement, nod that this is, oh absolutely, paradise? There we were, my new friend John and me, hanging out in the "L" section of kids' books reminiscing about the good old days on the other coast. He told me his parents are here and that is how they landed in these parts. He told me he used to work for an aquarium in So Cal, but life on The Island is not so bad. Hmmmm. I decided I would try to be polite and save my arsenal of negativity; he meant well, after all.
I recognized him as John from the library as he rolled into the pool just as I was leaving. I didn't recognize him right away in his pool uniform of black jammers. I think I was just thrilled to actually have a few bodies in the water so I was not left staring at the crabs on the bottom, as is the case at the other pool. There seems to be a promising crew at the new place and I love the coach. I even have a few running buddies who are meant to drift in and out of workout, true to slacker colors. Could be fun.
I think as time goes on, I settle in a little more. No longer am I anxious and anxiety-ridden about our state of being, but I cannot say I am content. I miss so much about my old life and what it means to be a Californian. I miss the air turning cooler and the quick option of driving two hours to the mountains for some snow. I used to miss the old routine, but now I think I just miss what it is to be California culture. I am not a fisherman or a boater or a seventy-degrees-is-cold- weather-complainer. I am a Californian still trying to make sense of what it means to live on a tropical island in an ocean I never thought would be my permanent beach.
As I write this, my seven year old is spreading out and admiring her six ribbons from last weekend's swim meet. "Mom," she just asked me, "Have you ever seen so many ribbons in one place? Have you ever won this many ribbons?"
"Not even close, my lovely, not even close." I told her.
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