Swimming in memories
The text arrived at the halfway point of the Paris Olympics.
“The synchronized swimming is coming up.”
It was from my friend Annie, who shares with me an appreciation of the sport. Some friends follow sports because they once competed together on a school soccer or softball team. And some, like Annie and I, follow a sport because of that single, fleeting moment when we, too, excelled at it.
Our kids were toddlers then, her two boys and my one, and our families were on vacation at the beach. The hotel had a pool where we would cool off after a day in the sand. And one evening after dinner, as the hours in the sun descended upon us with a rosy glow, we got a bold and athletic idea.
“Let’s do a water ballet!”
Now the Olympic sport is called artistic swimming – rebranded from the term synchronized swimming in 2016 – and was probably never really known as water ballet. But water ballet it would be for my pal and me. And this would take practice. She and I had seen enough of the competition to know what we wanted our performance to include.
Competition in the Paris Olympics features impossibly sleek women lifting each other high out of the water; there are perfectly timed swirls and circles beneath the water’s surface and above, and if you can watch any of it without thinking of dolphins, there’s something wrong with you. And how do they keep themselves afloat? How does the pod launch that swimmer so high without any ground to stand on? If the Olympics ever added a “treading water” competition, these women would medal for sure.
Inspired by what we’d seen in previous Olympics, Annie and I got to work. Standing on the ledge inside the pool, we collaborated on the choreography.
“We can start by jumping in.”
“And then spring up out of the water with our arms up, like this.”
“And then maybe float on our backs with one leg up.”
“Yes! And then the other leg, and then sink under.”
Energized by the brilliance of our ideas and the sheer athleticism of our bodies, we got bold.
“Maybe when we are on our backs we can hook our arms and go in a circle.”
“While kicking our feet.”
“And end by pushing off from the bottom of the pool and holding hands up high!”
This was so exciting I could hardly stand it.
We had our program planned. We would practice that evening and the next morning, followed by a performance that night after dinner.
One might think we were tipsy, or doing this to be funny or ironic, but one would be wrong. We were dead serious. We had seen the experts do this and we were going to do our own, age thirty-something version. One of the many reasons I love Annie is her utter lack of self-consciousness and her willingness to join me in doing the new thing.
That night we stood at the edge of the pool, announced ourselves, gave our swimsuit bottoms one last tug for coverage, lifted our hands in welcome and leaped in.
Maybe my leg was crooked when I lifted it; Annie may or may not have clobbered me in the head when we tried to link arms; maybe we weren’t exactly synchronized.
But we were spectacular. And so very sleek.
I don’t remember thunderous applause from the rest of the family, but we deserved it. Being artistic while treading water is not easy. But we created something, and then practiced, and followed through. We started and ended the routine perfectly together.
It was the high point of the vacation, and a happy memory.