Summary

The text is a personal essay reflecting on the author's experiences of self-discovery and independence during adolescence, primarily through the solitary activity of swimming at a public pool.

Abstract

The author recounts the formative experiences of their youth, particularly the time spent swimming at the university pool during the summers of their early teens. As an only child often dropped off alone, they found solace and a sense of belonging in the water, where they could escape the pressures of social expectations and the anxieties of fitting in. The essay captures the sensory details of the pool environment, the author's introspective thoughts, and the transformative nature of those moments, which were both liberating and defining. The narrative weaves through memories of diving, floating, and the simple joy of being submerged, culminating in a realization of the significance of these experiences in shaping the author's identity.

Opinions

The author values the independence and self-reliance gained from spending time alone at the pool.
The pool is portrayed as a sanctuary, offering a break from the outside world and a place for personal reflection.
The lifeguard's guidance is remembered fondly, suggesting a meaningful impact from this mentorship.
The author expresses a deep connection with the water, describing it as a comforting and integral part of their coming-of-age experience.
There is a contrast between the carefree nature of childhood and the adult fears that manifest in dreams, indicating a shift in perception over time.
The essay conveys a sense of nostalgia for the simplicity and freedom of youth, as well as the significance of those seemingly mundane summer days in the author's personal growth.

Lyric Essay

How I Found Myself Coming of Age in the Silence of Water

Of public pools and adolescence

Maybe sometimes I went swimming with a friend, but I most remember going alone — the delicious solace of being alone in a group of strangers. I am an only child and often went solo to the pool. In 1990, when I was twelve years old, my mom dropped me off at the university swimming pool on hot summer days.

She’d drop me off in the little blue Toyota, remind me not to talk to strangers, and tell me when to meet her out front, maybe two or three or four hours later. Sometimes it felt like I spent the whole day swimming. I loved it. She called me a fish.

I’d go alone with a beach bag holding a towel and a book. Walking up to the counter, I’d open my hand and start counting out the quarters needed for admission. I’d breeze past the sign saying to take a shower before swimming. Who did that anyway?

Walking my bare toes across the cool locker room floor then out onto the sizzling pale pavement I’d find a spot on the edge of things to drop my towel and bag.

I can hear the noise now, as I type this.

The friendly shouts a lifeguard’s shrill whistle before sternly chiding, “Don’t Run!” The slap of a beach ball against water the rubber of flip-flops drumming a beat to the refreshment window.

I’d inhale the scents— Sun-in, Banana Boat, and chlorinated water.

Sparkles of light, like silver-on-blue danced in front of my eyes. I walked to the edge, alone, and jumped into the cool water.

Submerged, the noise and scents fading away, I’d let my stomach almost touch the bottom and glide, glide, glide across the width of the pool, until I was on the other side, coming up for breath and taking in again the scenery, noise, and scents.

A mermaid. A twelve-year-old. A nobody among somebodies. A loner. A body among bodies. I’d pivot and glide again to the other side, my eyes wide open, seeing feet and legs, the rough, pitted bottom of the pool, and the floating fabric of swim trunks.

When I bored of this, I’d float on my back, eyes closed, sunshine bathing my skin in all-encompassing love. Eventually, the sunshine’s touch would start to burn my flesh and I’d flip over into a deadman’s float, gleefully seeing how long I could take this position, terrorize the lifeguards.

I’d shake off the image of the warty middle-aged woman who came to swim laps. She was covered in what looked like a terrible skin rash. Mom assured me she wasn’t contagious. If she got too close, I’d wander somewhere else, making my rounds around the pool.

Next up, the diving boards. I’d wait in line on the low dive and practice my form, though I’d never had diving lessons. The lifeguard kindly coached me. She took the time to guide twelve-year-old me, free floating around the pool, trying to find my way, coming of age, and not knowing where I was going. She helped show me the way.

Climbing the plastic steps to the high dive, I’d walk out to the edge, turn my head each way to make sure the low divers were exiting the pool, and then I’d try something — a dive, a flip. I’d let my body sink, sink, sink until I reached my hand to touch the bottom and then I’d emerge by the ladder to exit. From low dive to high dive and back again until the whistle blew — time to add the pool chemicals. Time for candy and a drink.

As an adult I’d dream repeatedly of walking to the end of a diving board and jumping into a pool, empty of water — a disaster, a death-wish. My body would jolt awake before hitting the cement. How did this adolescent love turn into an adulthood threat?

Digging money out of my beach bag, I’d buy Skittles, Gobstoppers, or Nerds. I laid out my beach towel in the shade and grabbed my Babysitter’s Club book. I let the sun shine on my shoulders while relishing my autonomy. For a few hours, I was in charge of myself. I decided what to do next, which candy to eat. The radio played pop songs over loudspeakers.

When the lifeguards blew their whistles, everyone jumped back in the pool. I’d glance at the clock. Ten more minutes before Mom picked me up. I’d take one more mermaid swim, where it didn’t matter who I was or where I was. It didn’t matter that at school I didn’t fit in. My anxiety receding in the gentle cradle of water, my ebullient spirit shining. I belonged. Here, I belonged.

When the clock beckoned, I toweled off, gathered my things, and rinsed off under the shower. Throwing on clothes, I walked outside to meet my mom, who’d offer to take me to the snow cone stand on the way home. I’d buy a medium blue bubblegum snow cone and eat the sweetness of summer, not even realizing these were the days of my becoming.

Aimée Brown Gramblin is the founder of Age of Empathy. She became a memoirist in her younger years and is writing them out now in middle age. A regular contributor to The Memoirist, Aimée is a late-blooming pop-culture enthusiast; she’s a contributor to FanFare and The Riff. With a minor in art history, she occasionally publishes art-centric nonfiction.

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