July 2023. I want to swim better, so I do something radical: I book a swim lesson.
I arrive early and pace the deck, eyeing the red digital clock. The pool is empty, save the lifeguard. Tim arrives one minute late, breathless and apologetic, a sturdy guy with red-grey hair in a polo shirt and shorts.
I introduce myself as a runner who started swimming for exercise last year after being sidelined by a series of self-inflicted injuries: a broken toe and multiple concussions. I’ve been following online training programs, gleaning tips from YouTube videos, but I've hit a plateau. I want to learn proper technique for speed, stamina, and efficiency.
To start the lesson, I swim two laps while Tim walks the deck, diagnosing my stroke.
Then we do three drills: head, breath, arms.
First, I swim with my hands at my sides, lifting and lowering my head until I find the spot where my body moves most quickly through the water.
Next, I swim focusing my gaze on three lines: the black line on the pool floor, the lane rope to my left when I breathe left, and the rope to the right when I breathe right.
Finally, I swim focusing on my arms, pushing water with my triceps, brushing my hips with my thumb, in one fluid motion. At one point, Tim asks me to hop out of the water. I stand on the deck and he takes my arm to demonstrate the correct motion. Kinesthetic learning.
To conclude the session, I swim two laps, attempting to incorporate the new adjustments.
“How did that feel?” Tim asks.
“So much better,” I say.
“You swam faster and more fluidly than you did a half hour ago.”
The techniques he taught me were basic. But I had never mastered those basics. I didn’t know what I didn’t know.
I appreciated how Tim met me at my level, without judgment; focused on fundamentals; and explained the rationale behind each drill.
Also: the lesson structure reminded me of a five-paragraph essay.
A little expert guidance goes a long way.
In the poem “Swimming Lessons,“ Nancy Willard recounts how her mother taught her to swim when she was seven years old.
Her mother fashions a “crazy life vest”— five blocks of balsa wood attached to her waist with a strap—and tells her “lazy little daughter” to swim out to the “deep water” of a lake. Over the next week, she removes the blocks one by one, inching her daughter toward independence until Nancy swims on her own.
Nancy’s mom is a brilliant coach: tough, compassionate, and methodical. She challenges Nancy to do the seemingly impossible—and gives her the support she needs to succeed.
May 2024. In less than three months, I’ll swim across the Hudson River.
Maybe it’s time for another lesson.