Page 3 of Swim To Me

I can do this. I want to do this. I want to do this for my-fucking-self.

Pushing through the glass door, I notice straight away the sounds of splashing water, which are way louder now than they had been in the changing room. The scent of powdery perfume, mixed with clean scented deodorant disappears… replaced with the strong smell of chlorine.

The tunnel I find myself in is decorated with blue and white tiles, cemented to the walls, floor and even ceiling. They glimmer as natural sunlight bursts through the end closest to the swimming pool.

Just a few more steps, Delilah.

Extremely aware of the way the bare flesh of my thighs is rubbing together, I quickly scan my new surroundings, gulping back another pang of fear as the tunnel peters out.

Fear flashes through my head like a bright red, flashing warning sign, louder and bigger than before.

I stare into the watery depths, watching it sway ever so gently from side to side.

Breathe. Don’t pass out. Don’t–

“Excuse me.” A polite, if not bored, voice jolts me out of my reverie.

An older woman kitted out in a startling blue and green bathing costume, with a matching green swim cap covering her hair, swims into my gaze.

I blink, my brain kicking back into gear, the realization that I’m taking up all the space beside the pool with my daydreaming panic, flooding through me.

Fuck.

Mumbling out an apology, I sidestep away, now utterly transfixed not by the water, but by the woman’s routine.

She folds her own towel over the metal railing separating the edge of the pool and the plastic seating area, and without a second glance at me, secures a clear looking nose peg onto her face and descends the stairs nearby into the blue water.

Her movements across the shallow water are as easy as breathing. As is the way she takes hold of one of those lane rope dividers, the ones with all the red and blue discs attached and lifts it just high enough to slip under.

When the woman slides a pair of goggles onto her face, I pull my gaze away, not wanting to be caught watching.

Instead, I turn towards the railing, laying my own towel over the metal pole just as the other swimmers seem to have taken to doing.

The cold metal bites in my palms as I attempt, once again, to steady my nerves.

I’ve almost completed the third and final part of my plan. All I need to do now is get in the water.

Resisting the urge to pull and pluck at my swimsuit, I double check the clasp on my bracelet is secure. Once I’m sure I’m not at risk of losing the key to my locker to the watery depths, I press my lips together tightly, sliding my feet from my flip flops and make my way to the top of the metal staircase. Water laps leisurely at the edge of the pool, slithering away into the grates as another swimmer kicks off from the wall, disturbing the usual stillness of the liquid.

I can. I can. I can.

I take a tight grip of the railing, which is slippery and wet. The weird unexpected texture rockets through my nervous system, threatening to unbalance me, until I silently call in my breathing. In, and hold, and release. In, and hold, and release.

My eyes bounce around, trying to find something else to distract me from the sensation, landing on the huge floor to ceiling windows covering the entire back wall. A large clock sits dead centre, the longest hand ticking away steadily as seconds pass. Just off to the side stands a tall lifeguard’s chair, with four straight rungs running bottom to top before you even get to sit in the bright red plastic chair.

It isn’t easy to miss, in fact, it’s hardnotto look at, which I guess, is probably the whole point.

A brown haired man sits as the lifeguard, his long legs dangling, feet bopping away in the air to a soundless tune. I take stock of the way he’s turning to the right to watch somebody and I’m about to look away, but then he shifts, his eyes catching mine accidentally.

I smile automatically, closed-mouthed, tight lipped before ducking my head down, repositioning my grip on the metal stair railing and allowing my big toe to disappear into the shallow water.

First contact made.

Breathing out an audible exhale, I take the second step down, then the third, and then the fourth. As my fingers skim the topmost layer of the pool, water sloshes over my chest, taking my already laboured breath away with its chill. God, it’s fucking freezing.

Rather awkwardly, I wade into the corner closest to the lip of the pool, distancing myself from the other swimmers coursing up and down the professional looking lanes. A set of chattering women send me each a toothy grin as they reach me, never oncestopping their conversation, even as they turn around and begin swimming back up the other end of the pool at a snail’s pace.

They made it look so easy! Kicking their legs underwater, while simultaneously sweeping their arms to the front, around the side and back. I vaguely recognise the move from my past swimming lessons. Isn’t it called a breast… something or other?

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