Ken, er Don, has a romantic notion he can teach me to swim. Fool that he is—a combination of the knight errant with an uncanny resemblance to his loyal squire, Sancho Panza—Don has issued a challenge, that this summer of my 62nd year he will teach me in his pool to overcome my tendency to sink rather than swim.
It is a gentlemanly and kind offer. Worthy of a quest that in times of yore would have received royal support. I hope I am worthy of his trust and effort. I will do my part, as long as he keeps the water temperature above 90 degrees. Usually his pool is a few degrees shy of my comfort level. Perhaps he’ll indulge me by turning up the heat.
It’s impossible to explain the basis of my fear of water. Some of my earliest childhood photos show me cringing in the water while being held by relatives or friends. I clearly was not enjoying myself. I was not a happy camper in those photos.
I failed to learn how to swim despite 14 years of summer camp. My brother can swim; my sister passed the Red Cross instructor course. I made sure Dan and Ellie learned. Dan even became a lifeguard. Gilda can swim.
I couldn’t ride a two-wheeler until Gilda forced me to learn when I was 40 so we could go on family bicycle trips.
If I learn to swim, I don’t anticipate taking up water skiing, scuba diving or some other exotic activity. But I might shed my fear of water and antipathy to pool parties.
While I’m learning to swim this summer, Finley also is taking his first swimming lessons (http://www.findingfinley.blogspot.com/ Read the July 8 "Little Fish in a Big Pond, er, Pool" entry, though I'm biased and think you'll enjoy all of the stories about Finley.)
What are the odds my 20-month-old grandson will learn before I do?
