Last week, I swam in a public pool in Brooklyn, where a fire destroyed our home.
This week, I swim across a placid pond in the Berkshires—with a total stranger.
I meet her on the shore of Lake Mansfield Park in Great Barrington, where I’ve come with Jess and our son on a sunny Sunday morning. (No dogs are permitted in the park, so we left River, our new puppy, home with my dad and his dog).
She’s an older woman in a black swimsuit, wetsuit pants, and bright orange cap. She could be my aunt or my mom or a woman in my Adult Swim boot camp. She says she belongs to a local Masters group called the Pacemakers. I smile and ask: Do any of them actually wear pacemakers? She laughs and says a few of them do. I tell her about my recent swim across the Hudson River. She says she’s the slowest person in her group. I say I was the slowest person in my group. Who cares? We’re swimming.
After a while, I suggest we swim together. I’ve been dying to swim across the pond, but am scared to swim solo. She agrees—and even loans me her spare swim buoy.
We wade into the water, bristling in the chill. We step through schools of minnows and larger iridescent fish that recall snorkeling this spring with Jess in Bermuda. Soon we reach the end of the sanctioned swimming area, the water now chest-deep. Then we submerge below the barrier ropes and surface in the pond proper. Out here, we’re swimming at our own risk, which feels vaguely rebellious and transgressive. Then again, there’s no lifeguard in the actual swimming area, probably due to the systemtic lifeguard shortage that closed half the Olympic-sized pool in Brooklyn.
We swim and swim and swim.
The water is a bit murky, like miso soup. We’re aiming for the boat launch on the far shore, a silvery glint amid green foliage. Since my companion is a more seasoned swimmer, I follow her lead, swimming parallel to her path and matching her pace—neither too fast nor too slow.
We’re not competing. We’re communing.
We swim and swim and swim.
As we approach the boat launch, the milfoil thickens. I switch from freestyle to breaststroke, both to avoid the algae and to avoid crashing my head into the dock.
In the shallow water, we pause for a minute to catch our breath. She tells me about spots in the Berkshires where she swims. I tell her about my friend Jason who swam three miles from the Statue of Liberty to the World Trade Center with Navy SEALS.
Then we adjust our goggles and swim back to the other side.
Pace Yourself
July 2023. I’m swimming with my son at our town pool when I spot a familiar guy exiting the lap lane. Grey hair, grey beard, black goggles. He’s here every day, grinding out laps. Tonight, he’s been swimming for an hour. I strike up a conversation.
“Are you training for a race?”
“No,” he says.
He says he had a stroke last year and swims one mile every day to aid his recovery. Cardiovascular health. He can’t feel hot or cold on the left side of his body, although he can feel pain. He jokes that when you touch a stove your body has two separate, but equally important neurological receptors: “The part that’s hot and the part that hurts.”
I ask him about his swimming journey. He says he started a few years ago and could barely swim 200 yards. He worked his way up to 1K, then 2K. Once, he swam 2,500 yards and passed out in the locker room. After that debacle, he promised his wife to dial down his training.
I ask if he has any advice for new swimmers. He says: “Pace yourself.” He swims a mile in 53 minutes. If he’s sprinting he can do it in 35 minutes—or at least he hit that time once.
In July 2023, swimming 2,500 yards sounds certifiably insane. By July 2024, after a year of practice and persistence, that distance sounds like a solid day at the pool.
Swimming Home
On the swim back to the beach, I get separated from my spontaneous swim partner.
At first, the change is disorienting. Without a companion as a pacer or a compass, my speed fluctuates and my path zigzags.
Yet the solo swim is not remotely scary. Not even a little.
Soon enough, I spot Jess on the shore and our son swimming in the shallow section. As I veer toward my family, I spy my swim friend circling back for another lap across the pond. I swim with my son for a bit, toss him in the air like we do in the pool. Then we towel dry and I leave the borrowed buoy on a bench beside her swim bag.
Later, I realize that she did what great teachers do: show me the way, then set me free with the confidence to chart my own course.
Summer’s almost over. But there’s still time for more adventures—in and out of water.
That's a beautiful story, Keith--and a comforting reminder that summer isn't over yet. There's still time to enjoy the closeness of nature, and to commune with new friends in surprising ways.