Month: January 2018

(Click photo to view original source)

I have put sex to the side, while I am swimming in sleep.

When I first dropped off, I could see the pool of my dreams, like I was somehow, looking down from above. And I was delighting in this out of body experience. It was a Hockney blue pool that I looked on, yet fully enclosed.

To one side could be seen fifty, royal blue, plastic, fold back seats in amphitheatre style, rows. To the other side of the pool, there is an enormous black board, which, somewhat to my surprise, indicates the swimming team of my own local pool, in big, broad white lettering.  Home of the Hertsmere Flyers.

At the far point, is the deep end of the pool, the depth of which is measured at 1m 90 cm. and beyond that a huge wall of glass, through which in daylight,  passers by could take a sideway glance into pool, but there was as yet, not a soul. My brain, I believe, rapidly conjectured, my dreamland encompassed all within the pool, and not without.

The pool is divided into four sections, by orange ropes, carrying red white and blue floats. Each swimming ‘pathway’ has a large placard at each end, determining whether swimmers should proceed clockwise or anti-clockwise, in their section. The middle lanes are set aside for the fast swimmers.

The shallow end of pool is denoted by a sign 1m 5cm deep. There is another pool to the side of this one and I can see children evidently learning to swim. The screams of enjoyment break into my sleep, and I am overjoyed at their determination to grasp the basic strokes, that will in turn reward their endeavours, in learning to swim.

Something tells me, that it is in this pool for beginners, that the floor can be raised higher, or lowered for advantage of older people, to take aerobic exercise

In the background are identical cubicles, grey faced doors, presumably for either sex, no misogyny here! There are a few larger rooms, no doubt for school groups and the like, and on a facing wall the ubiquitous clock, showing the midnight hour.

It seems with some trepidation that I now descend into the pool. Tip my toes in to ascertain its temperature. When all seems well, its not too cold or even too hot, I gently climb down the shiny, gleaming, silver metal steps situated alongside pool, There are signs on wall, indicating, ‘no diving’ or ‘jumping’ into water.

I begin with my breast stroke, and am not put out by other swimmers in an unseemly rush. With something of a somnolent approach, I seem to easily gain a slow rhythm, which is all to the good, and I am not inclined to get into competition with fellow swimmers. On this occasion, it is a refusal to be showy, to race overmuch, my mind seems to inform me, and it holds me in good stead.  Not to be too profound, but take due regard for humility in whatever you do, even in the swimming pool

Of course, determination to succeed comes into play, even while you indulge in such torpor; you are never far from the mechanics of success.

While my brain chunters on, there is an undercurrent of ambition to be assuaged. Mentally, buried in recesses of brain, in this kind of hypnotic state or trance, swimming lore comes to your aid. Such that, on completion of my breast stroke, I am usefully informed, not to swing out my legs too far forward, such that they finish up under my rear end.

Rather, I should give my legs a hearty thrust backwards, frog like, imagining oars attached to feet, in order to push water strongly behind me. This movement has the required effect of propelling my whole body briskly forward, while having arms outstretched, and then together, meeting like a sword, which lances the surface, jettisoning me onward, like a fast craft, in the pool.

In the breast stroke, my legs seem to be doing most of the work, which is about right. Meanwhile, my arms do not harass the water, but reach in together, fingers slightly splayed at ten degree angle- to give five percent more pull.

My dream breaks up and I find myself basking by the Herring Pool, in Portstewart, Northern Ireland, where I stayed with my parents a while ago, by the Atlantic Ocean.

The sea subverts the pool sometimes, all but taking over. The great ocean is wild at times. I feel the dangerous surge of undercurrent, so powerful that I could be drawn out to sea. It’s so cold, you think of ice floes. The waters can remain turbulent at any time of year, the pull and displacement of the water can make you fearful, for the sea reaches into pool with such force that were you not to hold back, it could deposit you in the deep dangerous ocean, never to be found.

I can see the harbour cubicles  up above on the rocky edifice. Very basic, with crude, pink painted doors A few of them, maybe four or five, rudimentary, below the Water Splash Hotel.

My mind’s eye takes in the Mull of Kintyre, across the water in Scotland, not far distant from the headland, in Donegal, South of Ireland.

In a flicker of time, I switch back to the enclosed dream pool and see that from my breast stroke exercise, I am now splashing, while running forward, which movement simulates, more or less, the same type of pull on my legs, and upper body, that I had experienced during time in Herring Pool. I am delighted in knowing that it is brilliantly good, especially, for the quadriceps and hamstring muscles.

I now find myself attempting to go into free style, the front crawl, and again like the breast stroke, I go about it in an unhurried fashion. So dream wise, I attend this stroke, more easily and assuredly to get  myself into a rhythm. I feel confident that I am proceeding very well. My breathing is not laboured, but more measured In fact; it is as though my subconscious brain has taken over, deleted the error of my former ways, and is reintroducing me in the proper practise, for the  crawl.

Rather than going too fast, too quickly, I have to hold back and go at the stroke effortlessly, and in my case it appears to work. Of course, with more work, the theory in mind is that I will up my speed and slice through the water. Like a dagger, through thin air. But first, I need patience and that belief in oneself.

What’s that noise I hear? An alarm clock bursts into chatter. Birds are about. I can hear their sing song.

 

Copyright Michael Mcenhill.

I first learned to swim a zillion years ago, when I witnessed the Brew brothers fling themselves with reckless abandon into our deep murky village pond on a summer fete day. Being twenty miles out of London, close to civilisation you may say, it was an extraordinary event, for it was at a time and in a place where people did not act in this truly spontaneous way.

I suppose they became heroes of a sort in my mind forever trumping the stiff starched attitudes you found in other people. They were all for gay abandon in the days when gay conveyed another special sentiment. And even so they could not be proscribed as skinny-dipping for after dispensing with shirts and shoes on muddy bank side, they held on to baggy trousers hastily rolled up half-mast.

Along with other Shenley Village people enjoying the day’s fun, I was witness to the sheer exhilarating enjoyment of these sporty lads, not far short of National Service ages. This far distant summers fete day remains powerful to me seeing the lads thresh their way through the deep water which cast a dangerous reflection on those many souls who had not dared unleash their bodies on any pool, whatever sort.

Indeed, you could say the Brews were kind of outlaws in that previously undisturbed sacred space, heroes of that place without a fear in the world.

I suppose as a young mite of a lad, I was intrigued as to how they could traverse the deep menacing water in such a dog paddle crawl style, with so much relish and joint merriment that gave onlookers such hearty smiles.

This early inspiration was enough to get me on my bike and make haste for the nearest swimming pool which I found was in the grounds of a local hospital or alternatively I could go to an open air swimming pool in the grounds of a rich hotel, for an early taste of swimming under hopefully a cloudless sky, in the splendidly long drawn out days of school summer holidays.

What struck me most in my new adventure was a new found buoyancy to my body; instead of being shackled to the ground like Gulliver, I discovered new found freedom of being afloat with my whole body being uplifted, borne as if weightless in the water. In modern terms sharing something of the extraordinary feeling of a spaceman.

Floating in space.

That’s not to say that it all came easy, like getting to ride a bicycle it all takes practise, but never be daunted by early set backs and you’ll find eventually in the medium of the pool, you will find your own ambition satisfied, to swim and find your own outer reaches of space too.

Of course since the days of the pioneering Brew boys, things have changed massively in the set up of swimming pools. Gone are the magical water fountains with their never ending cascading flow of clear sparkling water splashing long into the night illuminated by adjacent low level light features. Diving areas in most pools are now largely non-existent, even the simple swimming board at deep end, and has been done away with. Diving in new type pools is like walking on new laid grass, strictly verboten. Nowadays, there is hardly what old timers would call a deep end like in the past.

In my own swimming lore I would like to introduce you to a friend, Wendy Caldwell was her name. I met her at infant school and she was a swimming heroine of mine through the years. Now, she was not endowed with a sylph like figure, a Greek goddess. Rather, she was shall we say, weight wise challenged, in modern parlance.

Yet, how she could dive, taking to the springboard with consummate ease, reborn, like someone who finds their own true love?

Transformed she was, taking on the very poise of a ballerina, with a so pure delicate spring in her step at boards end, which reverberated gently and then more deliberately gained force as she increased the momentum, upwards until she was released from its hold and dove fast into space, reaching for sky and when at maximum height, would loop downwards to pool in deft and supreme dive, now stretching nymph like, entering with barely a betrayal of a splash. Magnificent.

Of course when swimming gala came round, she was brilliant, and could surpass most people at any event.
A play she excelled at was picking up brass metal plates scattered at deep end of pool. (Deep end really meaning 8 ft six)
She would allow herself one deep breath and would then dive in from poolside and retrieve them in short order until she held last plate close to her chest, rising up from the deep to much all round applause.

Another of my heroes from back in the past, and which comes to mind, although not of my time, was one, Mercedes Glitz, born in Brighton. She as a young girl set herself one of the greatest tests of endurance, determination and skill, in swimming of English Channel. It was on a glorious day of October 7th, 1925, when she undertook the feat and with single-minded purpose and ambition conquered the divide from France in fifteen hours and fifteen minutes.

It was through her son Fergal, who works at my local swimming pool that I heard of this most remarkable woman. Not alone that she achieved this incredible swim, but more telling was the fact that she took it on in order to raise funds for those destitute who had no homes. For those less fortunate souls, in our land.
That knowledge, reinforced my own determination to improve my all round performance at swimming, knowing that Mercedes had done so much in her lifetime was more than adequate testimony to everyone, that we can all make space to succeed in every endeavour of our lives.

There is now no place for ‘wild boys’ of yesteryear, and in most cases I suppose it is no bad thing but at the same time exhilaration you will find is in short supply. The no go areas receiving most prominence. At all times it seems there must be healthy decorum. No more shouting, splashing or bombing- what we called honey potting.

Most swimming sessions I have found are confined to swimming lanes, where you are relentless encouraged to swim end to end anti-clock wise or reverse order, making me at times invariably feel like the poor mouse of tread mill fame. And whenever I swim in these modern glass frontage pools with their canyon high side walls, Olympic length or not, I still feel somewhat closed in, not I suppose as I naturally felt in open air swim pools, Dolphin free.
But lets not be mean to modern swimming pools. If they lack any spark they make up for it in other ways.

Facilities are laid on for aerobics classes. Spa pools or Jacuzzis which bubble about like newly uncorked champagne. Pools with computerized adjustable floors and false ceilings obtain to be primed at proper heights to take account of water babes in arms and quick growing infants with huge sized Olympic ambitions.

There are mod style clocks about including Speedo types for with which to time your performance in the pool, so you are not at a loss for gizmos. They even supply plastic galoshes for your feet. While any amount of hair dryers abound, emitting heat to dry your manes, and to primp and coiffeur your hair for next appointments.

Finally, I daresay its in my nature, in a swimming pool, to as it were touch the void and experience the space opened up for me, bathing in a natural light, from here to eternity.