Heavier murky air

Both of my girls have been taking swimming lessons at the lake for the last several weeks.  One daughter has, after much time spent in terror of water, caught up with her sister in swimming ability.  They are now both lovely swimmers, and my heart aches to see them glide through the water.

Flying, but through a heavier murky air.

The park to which I have been taking them to swim has sections of the lake partitioned off with docks that roughly form a giant block letter B from the shore.  The lower level of the B is about four feet deep.  The upper level of the B is about seven feet deep.

And beyond the B?  The better swimmers can leap and dive and cavort in the twelve foot section that reaches outward into the lake beyond.

Before this summer?  My daughters’ swimming has been done almost exclusively in pools, and the lake?  Has been a revelation for them.

And for me . . . I did not realize how much time I had been spending in years past watching their bodies in the water.

Until this summer, when before my watchful eyes?

They became . . . invisible.

Every time they go beneath the surface of the lake’s water . . . they are gone.

The lake closes over the top of their bodies, and they are gone.

I have had to learn to trust that they will re-emerge, as there is no way for me to spend all of my time at the lake with my heart lurching in panic.

Hence the swimming lessons.

Which just ended.

Both girls run to me after their final lesson.

One daughter has passed out of this level with flying colors.  The final part of the test?  Jumping from the diving board and out into the deep deep water beyond the docks.  She is ecstatic and hands me the small cardboard certificate with proud glistening eyes.

“Please?  Can we stay a little longer?  Please?  Please?”

I high-five her and hug her and whisper congratulations into her dripping hair.

And she is off.

Still here is my other daughter, who hands me her certificate.

It says . . .

She can move to the next level whenever she feels comfortable.  She is still nervous about swimming past the docks and into the lake’s deep water beyond.  She is one of my very best swimmers, so it is up to her.  Whenever she is ready, the next level awaits!

I high-five her and hug her and whisper congratulations into her dripping hair.

“I didn’t pass, you know.”

“Yes, I know.  But you know what?  I am more proud of you for not passing than I would have been if you had passed.  So there.”

“Seriously?  That’s weird, Mom.”

“No, it’s not weird.  I know that you are a fine swimmer.  I have seen you swim in the deep seven-foot section and you are amazing.  And I also know the lake scares you . . . that last deep part where there is no enclosure and it’s just the lake as far as you can see.  That is scary.  That hugeness.”

“Hmmmph.”

“And so I am proud because you did not allow yourself to be pressured into doing something you weren’t ready to do.  More proud than I can say.”

“I was the only one in the class who didn’t pass.”

“I know, babe.  And seriously . . . all kinds of proud.  All kinds of proud.”

“Really?”

I stare into her eyes and smooth her wet hair from her forehead, “Really.”

She throws her towel to the ground and sits at the picnic bench with me, “I wasn’t scared, Mom.  I just wasn’t ready.”

“And the fact that you are mature enough to know that?  Is awesome.”

“You’re weird.”

“So it has been said.”

She grabs a handful of chips and turns to run back toward the lake, “It’s only a matter of time, you know.  I will do the diving board when you are least expecting it.”

I watch as she runs and splashes and plays with her sister.  I watch for a while in case she is going to suddenly decide to throw herself off of the diving board, just to get it over with.  But she does not.

She swims instead in the enclosed seven-foot section.  I see her and then she disappears beneath the surface and she is gone.  Invisible for a moment.  And then she reappears.

It’s like a magic trick.

And seeing my daughter grow up before my eyes?  That?

Is just magic.

She swims and swims, happy to have boundaries.  Still nervous about the deep expanse of water beyond the docks.  Considering it.  But nervous.

She is cautious and she knows herself.

She is my daughter.

Have you met her?

She is Kallan.