Catch the sun

Eight-fifty, evening. The pool's all but empty, my family over in the corner and a few girls off to the side. I'm standing at the far end, looking toward the green lamplit water and the deep indigo sky. The ripples move across the surface of this interminable lake. I am reminded me of last summer when my cousin stranded himself on a rock, and we had to tie the blue kayak to the rowboat when we found him. Yet that lake was sheer and smooth, and instead of laughter there was only loons. Unfortunate how that lake may soon be merely a sunny memory to us.

I take a deep breath, my hand on my chest. My singing instructor, whom I saw a total of eight times, taught me to breathe. I am a tree, straight and tall. I know, however, that when I lunge forward into the water all thought of her teachings will disappear, evaporated into the warm mosquito-ridden night.

When my father was a little older than I am, he did two laps of his pool without taking a breath, claiming the neighbourhood title for his second consecutive year. My brother of nine years can swim across the width. Although I am not naturally fast enough nor do I have large enough lungs, I have been practicing of late...and gasping for breath during Winds could have taught me something.

I dive. Instantly, water shoots up my nose (painful!) and I must let go of some of my precious store of air to alleviate this discomfort. Streamline, I refrain from moving my arms and reducing my hydrodynamic advantage. I have always had a strong kick -- if they had competitive flutterboard races, I would be in the first heat -- and I press on, desperate now that I realize I am running low on air.

My father's advice in this area is, Swim until you're sure you absolutely cannot swim any longer. Then keep going. And this is where I make my mistake, tonight like many other nights. I come up for air too soon, three-quarters of the way across. The disappointment that surges within me is far worse than the discomfort of pressing on.

Why is this important to me? It certainly has nothing to do with any talent I may have. Perhaps that explains it -- I want desperately to succeed in this, miniscule though it may seem, because it is not something I find easy.

This means far more to me than a perfect score in science right now, in much the same way as laying my hands on that beach ball did. Some things are, quite inexplicably, extremely important, and triumph feels like the best thing you have ever done. And some things, like our last soccer game, are beautiful whether you triumph or not, because you know you have worked your hardest. Society will never recognize my achievement in swimming underwater without stopping, but when the day is over and the blue fades to black, the stars shine far brighter.

I shake my head, clearing my ears of water. Then I head back for one more try. I don't make it, not tonight, but it doesn't matter: I have plenty of time.

Perhaps life is woven starlight.