Cold feet

I stared, for what seemed like ages, into the water.

I gulped. The bottomless pit feeling reappeared, making my stomach feel all queasy yet again. My knees started trembling as if I was trying to dive into the vast Pacific Ocean, not into a six-foot deep swimming pool in my neighborhood.

I observed Mom silently edging me on. Do you need further incentive, my mind scolded me.

A leap was all it took.

*

No matter how many friends you have, there is always that one companion who quietly, uncomplainingly, wipes away all your tears, bears all your fury, shares in your moments of rivalry and vengeance against siblings and yet, is mostly unnoticed by us.

Something we all take for granted- yep, our pillows.

Even as I write this, I can see, too clearly, my pillow lying tattered and bruised at a corner, after a recent pillow fight.

No matter whether I am eight or eighteen, my pillows always turn out to be my solace, the sole space of comfort when I am shedding guilty tears or sobbing away to glory.

But back then, I hadn’t committed a crime. I had just joined up for Summer swimming coaching classes which I wanted to leave as fast as I had joined. Enough criminal evidence against my eight-year-old self, right.

At least, that’s what my parents thought.

Not that they were wrong. I had always loved water, which meant I myself wanted to try out swimming. Not that I had ever been a “water baby”. To add to their arguments, I had always been an introvert. I disliked going out in public and never had too many friends. They felt I should indulge more in social activities. Fine. But what I hate most are social extra-curricular activities which always look like the entire neighborhood has decided to enroll their kids into those sessions.

Swimming for instance.

I must say, the pool was gigantic. What I must not say is that there were at least sixty pupils enrolled for the classes. I always used to wonder why the others just didn’t chill at the beach, when I would sharply be reminded by my mother that we too were learning swimming, and not hanging out in the beach.

The end result was that there would usually be utter mayhem with the two instructors going bonkers with all the confusion. The lines were never maintained and while over-smart extroverts got to swim more than once, shy ones, like me, who prefer to remain away from the public glare, hardly got a chance. The beginners’ pool was shallow enough for me to stand, which mean I didn’t get as many heart attacks while swimming there.

That’s when they decided to “promote” me, to the deep end.

I cried, begged the instructor to let me continue to in the shallow end till I could “hone” my skills.

And as adults generally do, they too ignored me.

That’s when I took my decision. Not just a flimsy one. A pukka, solid, rigid one. I would not attend coaching classes anymore.

Some called me a pessimist, and someone sized me up in one single word: “defeatist”. Which fell to deaf ears since I didn’t understand those words. As an eight-year-old, though I might have mistaken Julius Caesar, the Roman Emperor for Julio Caesar, the Brazilian footballer, I had enough sense in me to not drown myself with my below average skills.

My parents would give me all the advice they could offer. Much to my chagrin, Mom would accompany me to the classes to “motivate” me, yet it only served to make me feel more self-conscious and stupid. I tried to practice swimming lying on bed, making me the butt of my brother’s jokes.

 (To all the parents out there reading this, please don’t burden your child by expectations. I understand that it’s quite natural for you to have them, but let me tell you, by my own experience, that it is quite futile and would only add to your kids’ fear of failure and fear of disappointing you.)

In spite of all this, I was obstinate and refused to concede with their wishes. But my parents would not budge. Dad even threatened to ground me during all our weekly trips to our neighbors’ swimming pool, where they would host parties every Saturday, which was quite painful to even think about. Mom refused to take ‘no’ for an answer. She would, without fail, drive me up every single evening, paying no heed to the scowls, glowers and tantrums.

Which meant my daily terror continued.

It was on one such fateful evening that it happened. The ‘it’ event in my swimming life.

*

I can still remember it vividly, like it happened yesterday.

 The wind wasn’t cold, but I found my teeth clattering loudly against my jaws. I quite literally had cold feet. Maybe it was the icy shower I had had just before entering the pool. Whatever it was, my lips were blue, my knees seemed to want to hammer against each other and oh, in case I forgot to mention, my mental state was a nervous wreck.

This wasn’t my first try at the deep end. I had nearly crossed the width of the pool, as I kept emphasizing to myself. Not that there ever is any “nearly” in swimming. Imagine trying to cross the English Channel and saying you “nearly” reached the end? My sizzling self-sarcasm always reached an all-high during the swimming classes, trying to cope with my waning self-confidence.

I stood there, staring dumbly, at the brilliant blue water. My impatient instructor decided to let me have another chance later, she wanted to get on with the line. I wasn’t complaining. I just went back, flopped down on one of the plastic chairs close to the pool and buried my face in my arms, sensing even through my closed eyes, that Mom was watching me. I saw the disappointment writ large on her face, which she unsuccessfully tried to morph into confidence.

How could she be confident when her daughter messed things up every single day?

Someone touched me softly on the arm. I swatted it away, not looking up.

“Go away, Mom. I am not in a mood to hear your “Perseverance” speech,” I cried, with overwhelming bitterness which seemed to tear at my soul and wanted to tear at hers too.

Story uses present tense from now, as if narrating the event.

Still not looking up, I groan as I hear faint rustling in the seat next to mine. Mom was serious this time.

“Joanna,” an unfamiliar voice is saying.

I start. Who is this? I raise my eyes to look up at the person sitting next to me.

Now, I know some novels romanticize strangers as being handsome, having dark, windswept hair and having dark, brown or green eyes-but this man was none of those. He was old, overweight, of medium height. His hair was aging with streaks of white in grey hair that might have once been jet black. His skin was wrinkled and though he didn’t use a stick, he was hobbling uncomfortably. He smiles as I look up.

“Joanna, isn’t it?”

I nod miserably as a solitary tear finds its way down my cheek.

Both of us stare at the pool for a long time, hardly saying anything. In my loneliness and misery, the last thing I want is a conversation with a perfect stranger. I watch the others enjoying themselves in the pool, and something gnaws away at my heart.

“You see the kid there?” the man is saying.

I reluctantly turn my head in the direction of his pointed finger.

“That’s Clare,” I remark, indifferent.

“Yes, that’s Clare,” he nods thoughtfully.

He asks for some more names, then relapses into silence.

For a split second, I stare at him, incredulous. Has this guy turned up to take attendance or something?

“Do you see what is common in them?” he asks, making me shake my head and wonder what he was drawing at.

“This is not the first time they’ve been here.”

Irritation lashes out in my heart. I desperately search for Mom, but she is nowhere to be found.

“Last time they came, they…”, he stops abruptly, seeing my obviously irate glance.

“Excuse me Sir, how much do they pay you for advertising this rotten place?”

“Let me finish.” His tone is dead calm, and something forces me to sit still and listen.

“These kids too sat with me once, the first time they were here.

They too were once scared and nervous, just like you.”, he smiles.

I wonder whether to be happy that my predecessors were once as terrible as I am or to take offense that this stranger was openly poking fun.

I manage a weak grin, unsure how to react.

“Beyond each of theirs’ happy, care-free faces lie a story of sheer determination and confidence.”

I groan. This is turning out to be worse than Mom’s speeches.

“But that’s a story for another day”, he adds, as my shoulders relax.

 I try to gather up the last of my resolve as I barely manage to whisper, “But I can’t swim. I will drown. I am scared of the water.”

He throws back his head, laughing. I am mortified. I definitely did not think it was funny.

He stares at me fondly, eyes twinkling with barely suppressed mirth- “You remind me of my Jana. Do you want to know a secret?”, he whispers with an air of a conspirator.

“You can’t drown, not if you know some basic breathing and floating exercises.”, he smiles again, the smile crinkling his rough skin.

“You can’t drown?” I repeat, dazed.

“Only if the current is too strong at sea. But you don’t have to worry about that in a pool, you see.

And what’s more, your strokes are wonderful. I have watched you; you have got a perfect technique, you know.”, he smiles again.

I honestly feel those are the best compliments I have ever got.

“For achieving anything in life, remember you need three essentials: hard work, patience and faith in yourself. As for hard work, a few laps in the shallow end and some breathing exercises would do the trick. As for patience, I am sure you would go to any lengths to prove yourself. And as for self-belief,” he stares at me sternly.

I gulp, feeling like a kid caught for stealing candy.

“I promise I won’t quit”, I tell him, forcing myself to look at him in the eye.

The expression in his eyes soften.

For the first time, we smile at each other.

With renewed energy and considerable excitement, I do as he told, pushing myself to do more laps till I built enough stamina.

It’s time, I remind myself.

The pool is nearing closing time.

“Miss!” I call out to my instructor.

“Aren’t you the kid who is scared of the water?”

I swallow and take a deep breath: “I was.”