On the pool deck, a middle-aged man is choking a shirtless teenage boy. The guy has his arm wrapped around the kid’s neck, inner elbow squeezing his windpipe. Half a dozen teens form a semi-circle, observing in silence.
What looks like a deadly assault is actually a lifesaving lesson. The teens are lifeguard trainees. The coach and the boy he’s strangling are role-playing on land what might happen in the water. You try to rescue someone and they cling to you, dragging you both to the bottom. The simulated chokehold reveals the fundamental irony of lifeguarding: saving a life can get you killed.
Now the trainers is demonstrating how lifeguards should break free from a strangler.
“First tap my arm.” He taps the kid’s forearm.
“If that doesn’t work, try a pinch.” He pinches his skin.
“And if that doesn’t work, punch me in the face.” He pantomimes a punch.
I shudder as I witness the scene from a nearby deck chair, where I’m drip drying in the sun after swimming laps for an hour. My lower back is still sore, but less painful thanks to yoga, two online videos and a restorative class, where every ostensibly relaxing pose made my back and hips scream.
Recently, I’ve been entertaining the idea of becoming a lifeguard. My mom was a lifeguard. Many of my uncles, aunts, and cousins were lifeguards. Why not me?
But now, observing the training session, the idea seems ludicrous—and terrifying. I’ll stick to swimming and let the professionals do the lifesaving.
Days later, I’m sitting in the barber’s chair, face flushed pink and streaming sweat.
She takes a terrycloth towel from the mantel below the mirror and dabs my forehead.
“Lo siento,” I say. “Acabo de nadar y ducharme y todavía estoy sudando.”
Sorry, I just swam and showered and I’m still sweating.
We speak in Spanish because I want to practice and she humors my efforts. For years, I’ve been taking Spanish classes and immersing myself in the language: listening to podcasts and music; watching tv series and movies; reading books and graphic novels; and traveling to Mexico. Studying a new language as an adult is empowering, but humbling, especially when you’re talking to a native speaker.
I feel similarly about swimming. Today, I swam 104 laps, the longest distance I’ve ever done. I’m proud of my progress—a couple of years ago I could barely swim two laps without a break. But I still feel like a beginner, still daunted by the prospect of swimming across the Hudson River.
In the pool, I can stand, see the bottom, push off the wall every 25 yards—and pause to catch my breath and drink water. The river will be deep, dark, and wide, with no walls or lane ropes or water bottles. Fortunately, I still have 7 weeks to prepare.
“¿Tiene piscina en su casa?”
“No I swim at the gym and the public pool. I don’t have a pool in my house.”
“¿Es porque las piscinas son caras?”
“Yes, expensive. And my backyard is too small for a pool. And it’s not worth it to have a pool in New York. You can swim only in the summer. Maybe if I lived in Florida.”
Last year, we had almost the identical conversation. Now, I don’t ask if she swims because she told me she never learned. Her hometown in Ecuador—where her parents and siblings still live—is too cold to swim outdoors and there aren’t indoor pools.
She asks if she should shave the top of my head.
“Yes. There’s not much hair on the crown. Do you say ‘la corona de la cabeza’ in Spanish?”
“Sí claro. Su español es muy bueno.”
She shaves my skull. Clumps of hair tumble down my torso, black flecked with grey.
“¿Ha visto osos ultimamente?”
Her question is shocking, but not surprising.
“Yes,” I say. “There was a bear in my neighborhood.”
I show her the photo on my phone: a black bear casually crossing a suburban street
“Es flaco.”
“I think he was hungry, looking for food in the garbage.”
I ask why she asked about the bear. She says her customers have mentioned bear sightings: in the park, in a woman’s backyard, and now, near an elementary school.
In 2020, we moved from Brooklyn to the suburbs, the first wave of the pandemic exodus. I don’t miss much about city life. But I never bargained for bears.
“¿Quiere que le lave el pelo?”
I follow her to the sink where she washes my hair, strong fingers kneading my scalp. Then I return to the chair where she shaves my neck and sideburns with a straight razor, then dabs scented ointment that tingles my skin.
After the haircut, I feel fresh, clean, and rejuvenated.
“Be careful,” I say after saying goodbye. “And watch out for bears!”