Underwater

The sound of women’s laughter and conversation used to bounce off the hard surfaces of the locker room, but now this space is mostly empty and silent. Swimmers shrink from one another, quietly claiming the far corners. They cover their faces and keep their eyes downcast as they change. In the early morning, fresh from slumber, it feels as surreal to me as a dream.

Here — behind the white plastic shower liners, standing dripping before lockers, emerging from the toilet stall to the noisy whoosh of an industrial flush — is where I find women like me who belong in water. I see the dimpled flesh of so many bare buttocks, the line between the two cheeks not always straight but sometimes curved like a country road.  I see wet hair clinging to faces, steam rising from shower stalls and turning skin pink, causing each one of us to look as vulnerable as a freshly bathed child. 

Sitting down at the edge of the pool,  I tug my swim cap down low over my ears.  I place my fins beside my kick board and set my water bottle within  reach.  These are the ways I delay getting wet.  I love swimming, yet part of me dreads dipping into the water.  It’s the same with the ocean: even after I have driven for hours in the heat of summer, my seat sticking to my bare thighs, I still recoil from its embrace.  I wish I understood why I shrink from what I cherish: swimming, making love, playing with my children, answering a call from someone I care about.  During this past pandemic year, the list of what I shrink from has grown longer.