Different Lessons, Same Water

On hubris, and the quiet courage of beginners.

Last week I taught the first session of a 4 week Adult Beginner Swimming class at my local public pool.

One of the swimmers was a 73-year-old woman who had never learned to swim.

Eleven months ago, she fell into the Rogue River and drowned. As she recounted the event, I found it hard to believe that she was sitting in front of me telling the tale. She took water in her lungs, went into cardiac arrest. CPR brought her back, breaking her sternum in the process. She was in the hospital for 11 days recovering. Despite the experience, she told me she’d always loved being in and around the water and decided that it was time to learn to swim.

By the end of class, she was bobbing up and down, blowing bubbles out her nose, and discovering what it feels like to float.

It was a beautiful thing to witness.

There were four other swimmers in the class. Three of them had much less experience and were just beginning to become comfortable putting their faces in the water, exhaling out their nose and exploring trust in being held by the water.

The other two considered themselves strong swimmers.

One was a former Navy man who repeatedly described himself as “hydrophilic.” Loves the water immensely. Told tales of free diving to extreme depths in a tube, but in his words, “it had been awhile”, and he wanted to refresh his skills so that he could start lap swimming.

The other was a woman who only signed up because her sister wanted a companion in the class. “I feel completely comfortable in the water. I’m a really strong swimmer,” she said, “I just want to brush up on my strokes so that I feel comfortable lap swimming.”

As I introduced nose bubbles to the less experienced swimmers, the woman pulled me aside and said, “I think I’m in the wrong class. I’m really comfortable in the water.”

“Hmm,” I said, buying a moment as I wondered how to convince her to stick around, “I think you’ll get something out of this.”

As the class unfolded, it became clear that while neither of the ‘strong swimmers’ needed help putting their faces in the water, they carried a surprising amount of tension in each and every movement.

The woman breathed every stroke, almost frantically, straight arms windmilling as she lolled from side to side. “I sure need to rebuild my fitness,” she exclaimed.

But the problem wasn’t her conditioning. It was that she was constantly running out of breath. We talked about breathing more fully into her belly, finding an easier rhythm, and allowing herself to actually feel her body in the water instead of hurrying from breath to breath.

By the end of class, she came over and said, “I’m really glad I’m taking this class. I’ve already learned so much!”

We tend to divide people into beginners and experienced swimmers, as if they were two different kinds of people. I’ve done it myself. A few years ago I attended a swim camp in Greece as a coach. I had swum 21 miles, the length of Loch Ness, after all — none of the other coaches had. I confidently demonstrated my arm recovery, and the head coach gently pointed out that my hand cocked to the side, articulating my joint in a strange way with every stroke. I had carried that into hundreds of miles of open water without ever feeling it. All my experience hadn’t granted me knowledge. It had granted me confidence — which isn’t the same thing.

The truth is, I learn the most from the swimmers I teach. The newest ones, just getting used to the water, remind me that I don’t have all the answers.

Just in this class, I saw one woman learning to trust the water for the first time, several people learning that they could put their faces in without panic, and two strong swimmers discovering how much effort they had been carrying.

Different lessons.

Same water.

It’s one of the gifts of swimming —if we allow it—the water doesn’t ask who you used to be, how many miles you’ve swum, or whether you’ve been comfortable for decades.

It simply reveals what you’re ready to learn.

And perhaps that’s true beyond swimming, too.

How often do we tell ourselves we’re too old, too inexperienced, or too advanced?

How often do we decide we’re in the wrong class?

Maybe we’re not.

Maybe we’re simply being invited to learn something different.

Different lessons.

Same water.