Swim. Sing. Survive.

Lineage and legacy--in and out of the water.

Waves crash on the shore, furious cymbals that silence the country music twanging from a trebly stereo. It’s Friday morning and I’m with my son in Rhode Island, visiting family for the holiday weekend. I want him to swim in the ocean, like I did at his age, but would never let him swim in the Atlantic alone—especially not in this rough surf.

Each wave churns fresh white foam, sandy clouds of shells, and black seaweed. Each time the water recedes, the undertow yanks our ankles, carving channels in the sand under our heels.  The air smells like salt and citrus sunscreen. In the water, Latino teenagers bob atop the waves on boogie boards. In the distance, pink buoys mark the edge of the safe swim zone. Behind us there are two lifeguard stands; one is empty.

A seaplane buzzes overhead, toting a banner advertising Hard Seltzer. I have not drank alcohol in six months. I plan to keep the sober streak until I swim across the Hudson River in three weeks. Maybe longer. Maybe forever.

Finally, there’s a lull between waves. We sprint into the water, holding hands.

As soon as we pass the breakers, we stop in the calmer water. I stand. My son treads.

I keep one eye on him and the other eye on the ocean.

If a waves seems small, I yell “Bob!” and we float above the swells. If a wave looks large, I yell “Duck!” and we dive under the churn. I always surface first and immediately check to see my son has surfaced safely. After each wave, I tell him to swim toward me, against the current that drags us down the beach, away from the body surfers and the lifeguards.  

“Eyes up,” I say. “The current is strong.”

“Not as strong as us,” my son says. “Right, dad?”

I smile. He’s taller and more muscular since we swam at this same beach last summer. And since then, we’ve both become stronger, more confident swimmers. I don’t want to burst his bubble, but he needs perspective to stay safe. As the boat captain asked Jess and me last month in Bermuda before we went snorkeling in the ocean: Do you know your limits? Do you promise to stay within those limits?

“We are strong,” I say  “But the ocean is stronger.”

After the swim, we dig holes in the wet sand and build walls and moats to guard the pit.I dig a spiral pattern with my heel—a low key Fibonacci sequence. But no matter how deep we dig or how high we make the walls, the ocean always wins.

It’s Fun to Swim at the Y-M-C-A

A few hours later, I join my aunt and uncle to swim laps at their local YMCA; our family vacation in Rhode Island meant missing this morning’s Adult Swim practice in New York. I still don’t feel ready to swim across the Hudson River in three weeks and fear that skipping a training session could risk my readiness.

My aunt and uncle are serious swimmers in their sixties. The bumper sticker on their car says: Eat. Sleep. Swim. Their four kids—my cousins—are serious swimmers in their twenties and thirties. Two have completed Half-Ironman triathlons. One is now training for an Ironman. Two have swam Escape from Alcatraz. That event entails diving off a ferry near the notorious island prison and swimming two miles to shore in San Francisco.

I may never swim such crazy distances.  Nevertheless, swimming with my aunt and uncle—makes me feel a sense of belonging, welcomed into the inner sanctum of a secret society that is not really a secret. I felt similarly when I started swimming laps on Sunday mornings with my mom this winter at her gym and with another my aunt from Colorado a few weeks ago at my gym.

Now, after the exhilaration and amped anxiety of swimming with my son in the ocean, swimming laps in an indoor pool feels calm. And after five sessions of Adult Swim in a 50-yard pool, the 25-yard laps in this standard-sized pool feel surprisingly short.

As I swim, mindful not to bump my lane mate, I find myself singing:

It’s fun to swim at the Y-M-C-A

It’s fun to swim at the Y-M-C-A

You can get yourself clean

You can have a good meal

You can do whatever you feel.

Ironically, I hate the original song. Its kitschy disco vibe strikes me as saccharine, cloying and cringe-worthy. I hate how the song blares over the loudspeakers in the sixth inning of every single Yankees home game. I hate how the groundskeepers stop sweeping the base paths during every chorus to spell the letters with their arms above their heads. Perhaps the only pukier musical choice would be “Sweet Caroline,” the schmaltzy Neil Diamond anthem adopted by the Boston Red Sox as their theme song.

Somehow, swimming at an actual YMCA silences my inner grumpy hipster voice and sings with pure pop glee.

Motivational Monday

Three days later, the warm fuzzy feelings dissolve. We’re back home and I’m back in the long pool for Adult Swim at sunrise. During warm-up, I feel sluggish and worry I won’t be able to endure an hour.

“It’s motivational Monday,” Meg says. “Let’s get motivated.”

Then she announces today’s regimen: 4 x 400 yards with a minute rest between sets.

That’s 32 laps in this 50-yard pool, or 64 laps in a standard pool, which feels like a lot, yet still less than I’ll need to swim across the Hudson River in three weeks. Eek.

After the first set, I drink an entire water bottle. After the second set, I drain a second bottle. After the third set, I’m dying for a drink, then overhear a woman in the next lane tell Meg that she forgot her water bottle. Feeling her pain, I offer her my third and final bottle. I’m not religious, but I do my best to obey the Golden Rule.

After the fourth set, I grab the wall gasping, paradoxically surprised and not surprised that I finished the regimen.

Swim practice—like writing practice, like any practice—reminds me what I often remind my students, clients, and myself: we are all capable of more than we think.

“Man,” I say to Meg afterward, shrugging my sore shoulders. “That was hard.”

“Distance is hard,” she says succinctly, then turns to the teenagers milling on the pool deck, waiting to start their own swim practice, which is undoubtedly more grueling.

On the drive home, perspiration sluices down my forehead and cheeks.  When you swim, you forget you’re sweating. I crank the A/C and Anything for Selena, a Spanish-language NPR podcast about singer Selena Quintanilla, a.k.a. the Queen of Tejano music, who was shot and killed at age 23, on the verge of becoming a superstar.

I tap the steering wheel and sing along with “Amor Prohibido,” angered and saddened by the singer’s murder, but grateful that her music—and spirit—still survive.