Editor’s note: Enumclaw Middle School students wrote essays about how places around the Plateau shaped their identity. Six essays have been selected to be published in the Courier-Herald at the end of the month, every other month; they have been minimally edited to retain the author’s voice. This is the fourth of the six essays.
Opening the gray, heavy door shouldn’t feel this welcoming. With the impending doom of a major workout and the uncomfortable feeling of scraped knees that would soon accompany it, I shouldn’t feel excited. But I do. The feeling of repressed air, hanging low and almost uncomfortably warm, should be a warning sign to get out, something in here is unnatural. It’s not right.
But it is.
The air is warm, but warm like a hug, waiting to envelop you. The stench of chlorine fills my nose, like vinegar or even bleach. It’s abrasive but comforting. I’m used to it, though, and I hardly notice. Even with the primal warning signs, no one here looks unhappy. You will rarely find someone who doesn’t choose to be here. This place is where memories are made, where strength is gained, and where a skill that could save a life is learned. Children are in the shallow end, barely listening to their instructor as they frolic around, splashing each other like sea animals. Parents and guardians watch on the bleachers, anxious but proud. The kids sounded like they were having the time of their lives, while the instructor was trying not to blow steam through her ears.
My friend was the first one to notice me. Jumping up and running down the few bleacher steps. It has become a routine by now, she runs down to tell me about her day, her hair bouncing behind her in a ponytail. She was talking fast and giggling her way through the sentences, and I could tell she had been dying to tell someone about her for hours. I listen while I get onto the bleachers, shedding off my coat, and fishing out my goggles and cap. We had to wait as the others started to arrive, and we passed the time by laughing, putting all my worries at ease.
When we finally get into the water, the cold rushes through my skin. My goggles slightly fill with water, but I push through, moving like a rocket to the scratchy bulkhead, flipping and pushing off. The water parts for my body as I glide along the surface. The tight feeling of my muscles constricts a bit, as my arms are getting used to the push and pull of dragging myself through the water, getting myself to the end of the lane. My ears resurface with a roar as the sounds of people’s voices fill them until the words become clear and unfiltered. I recognize the sentence being asked of me. My coach was telling me to kick a little deeper and to make my strokes longer. Old news to me by now, but it is something still worth hearing. Re-energized with new directions, I dive in again, trying to practice what he told me.
After what felt like years, but was only ninety minutes, practice was over. Dripping wet and exhausted to the bone, I stumbled out of the water. Mindlessly putting away block covers and fins before I said my goodbyes. Everything felt like it was buzzing. My body felt weightless and fuzzy, like what I would imagine zero gravity would feel like. Wrapping a towel around myself, I quickly tried to control my trembling limbs and shaky breath. No matter how much I swim, though, I will feel terrified just the same. So doing this is a major accomplishment for me. Even if I get even farther than I am, I will be a little scared. I don’t regret doing this, though, I love every minute. Every time I take the chance and dive in, I prove to myself that fears cannot define me. We can be terrified of something but love it just as much. And maybe, I am the only one who thinks the gray entry door is intimidating. But I think that this makes swimming just that much more important to me.
