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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.