Ripples

Voices. Waves. Water. And echoes. My own voice, echoeing through the cool depths of space, swimming across space from a sunny Earth many swings back, back to now, where the Earth twirls its way around the solar fire, flinging the silver moon around it on its way, like a boy kicking a stone on his way home from school.
Swimming, and space, is a place for elegance, dancing, slow motion, and slow motion sickness.
My voice echoed sickly back to me, saying, plaintiff, "I don't feel anything. I hold you, and I can't feel that you love me, or any of the things you say. I know in my head what you are saying, but I can't feel it."
And then I stuffed the towel into my daypack, jumped on my bike the way some vault over gates, and raced to the pool for training.
There is such power in those moments, that seem so basic, and yet something goes into them, an injection, a surge of power, so that they visit us thousands of days later, still fresh with their original emotion and electric gold energy.

The laps in the pool, where these thoughts of the day unwind or are hardwired back, deeper into the brain tissue - it happens here.
A simple space, this simple body of water. Water seems simple enough. At our beck and call, when we grip a lever and it flows onto egg yoked dishes, or through the syruppy sludge of a coffee cup. Have we tamed a single element of the universe, yes, water?

The silver tap bulges, splits apart, melts, with the fury of a bursting artery, when banks of water are shipped in tankers through the sky and dropped on some frail, crushed land. The silky purr of foam on shore is a mere whisper of the hurricane shriek of the tsunami, black with debris, and death. The flat flat sea, so balmy, so beautiful, so blase, not quite so romantic when its carpet rips, unfurls, by the giant giant wind, building Everests of pyramids, turning silk to icy fire. In all things, in the elements, resides great power and might. Even in the whorls of our ears, the tips of our fingers, the simple strength to annihilate or soothe and caress.

That day, when I felt so little, when teenage angst spoke clearly of the insanity that floats like a miasma over the suburbs...that day I dived in the clear water, wanting to forgot the dizziness, wanting to swim through it.
But it ripples back, like every other intelligent string floating through the universe. It ripples back to be seen and heard for what it is. It ripples back, it ripples back, a giant cavern of power to get our attention, ourselves in motion, with it.

Scintillations

What will I become? What will become of me? What will I will for myself, and will my will be done, in these waters, whatever may happen on the earth or even in the heavens?

Will I fly across the glass, leaving them in my wake?
Will I struggle in the waves of others?
Will my own struggle be enough, or will I have to beat the others and finally, when there is no one left, have myself to deal with? Which will it be for me? Which one of these? Will I be alone at the end of it all, or will others celebrate with me, or keep me in my own company? Will they cheer for me when I win, and even when I do not. And when it is all done, will they remember me, and remember what I did in those strong, tranquil days?

Let me assure you all, even though I am but a child, I will swim hard, harder than I think I can. I will swim in the morning, and even when I am not fresh. I will swim every day and into the evening. I will swim even though my hair dries and becomes brittle and white, and my skin has that sperm-like chlorinated smell. But don't complain if you look at me and I have serene, blink free gaze. I am merely calm and dazzled by the sun, my arms tired from wakes and wavemaking.

I will let it all radiate from me, and into me. And I will ask myself merely for all of my strength, all of my breath, to stretch myself as far as I can across the scintillating glass.

And my coach will say, at the end iof the day. "Okay, get out. Get dry. Nice job."
And then we will do it again, until all that is terrestrial has been drowned, and the fish finds it feet and webs in the water. But I need to know, in all this work, in all this water, what will I become?

Reflections

A swimming pool is a fishbowl for the soul. It is a place to be buoyant, a place for the sun to sprinkle itself into rectangular blue. It is a place where wet dreams spin down a towel-dried spine.

Maybe some of the magic and charm of toiling in a pool comes from primal memories when I spun in amniotic fluid, dark and warm, with outside sounds muffled and crushed. Maybe a swimming pool is a place where the inklings of life blink back at us, through the stars, the silver stairs of light, where bodies are suspended, and I suspend my own, in a rectangular bubble bursting with light. A swimming pool, in its most basic sense, is merely a rectangle of water for people to put themselves in.
There is ecstacy in that, and also, despite all this delight, loneliness.

The loneliness of the long distance swimmer comes from isolation, from being in a sterile white world for long periods of time. It comes from being alone with oneself, in water. But this is not without warmth, or the glittering light of reflection. Sometimes the images shiver, dripping icy from their source. More often they spring buoyant and bright from the dancing rainbows that flow and radiate their chlorine dreams across the bleached chessboard backdrop that is the swimming pool.

I saw my own reflections in the dark black bar running the polar white length of our lanes. I saw myself drifting in the night, I descended down, until the water pressed tightly against my ears, and saw my dark eyes shining in the dark, the tips of my hair catching the light and drawing it towards the dark black bar. I'd watch these silhouettes of light play off the the small waves that snaked around my body as I crawled powerfully from one end of the pool to the other.

Sometimes I'd swim underwater and turn upside down and see the surface turn into a mirror, so that I was flying and below myself.
Reflections set off introspection. And a curosity in the swimmers stroking the water beside me.

Races

A swimming pool is transformed when it is time to race. A race at a swimming pool is called a gala. A gala has a different meaning to a race. It conjures up feelings of celebrity, of a sumptuous feast, and festivity, and races at swimming pools are often just these. There is diving and splashing, gunshots, the flash of lights and flags off the water, the coaches and parents and mobs shouting and pressing and pointing, the timekeepers in white advancing on the advancing swimmers, and the understated sensuality of strangers side by side, removing their clothes for the water.

I swam so many races most are a blur. But three do stand out. I will describe the three races here, but first it is important to show the subtlety and significance of racing in a simming pool as opposed to a track or someplace else.

One was a backstroke race, another was a freestyle relay, a third was a 1500m race when I was a student at the university. Others come into my mind now that my mind returns to long ago shapes of the pool, with its red, white and blue lane lines streaking from one side of the pool to the other.

I remember the moths dancing around the bright lights, many of them falling drunkenly down in front of the seated spectators, down, down to fall and flap weakly in lane 10, nearest the side. None of us wanted to swim in lane 1 or Lane 10. That was for the moths and grasshoppers.

Young children who swim may seem to be playful before and after the event, but the reality lies deeper. The race itself is a defining moment. Even a child can sense that, and appreciate the seriousness of the situation.

Will the training pay off? Will the pace be right? Will I anticipate the start and the turn correctly? Will my goggles stay on? Will I remember to keep my fingers closed, to stretch, to feel the water, in the panic of the water, the rush of the race?
And when it is over, when I touch the wall, and lift my head from the crystal, and face the lights and the rainbows, what will I see? Where will I be? What time will be mine?
Will I be first or last or somewhere in between?

Racing tells me, most importantly, who I am, in relation to those others around me.
I realise that this is not as elementary as it may sound. Knowing my place means also knowing something far more significant|: my power in relation to those around me. It gives me a powerful portent when I am so young into what will be my place and my part to play in this world. Once I know my place it means either I can be accepting or rejecting of myself, and of the winner. I can be acceding to defeat or fighting for victory in race upon race upon race. A race in the most basic sense shows me who has the most power and mastery over the field, and more directly, how much power I have over myself.

Someone said, A kiss may not be the truth, but what we wish were true.
A kiss is one way to discover my power over myself, and my confidence in others. I mean, of course, kissing someone who I have never kissed before.

There is a subtle race, maybe one of endurance, but also strategy – like in a cycle tour – in the race for a kiss. Too fast, and I risk overplaying my hand. Too slow, and my faint heart will not win the fair lady.

The same can be said for races. A race is, after all, simply a gathering of people, in a confined space, intent on the same goal. Too fast, and energy gets squandered and lost. Too slow…No, it must be just right. This is also the miniature of our greater existence on this planet, as we race to be more industrious, productive, faster, or smarter than those around us. A race is an important quest, whether you are ten years old, or twenty.

The race in the blue lane of an Olympic pool is but a shimmering of the great and terrible races that generations have swum over the shores and streets and hills of our world.

The most serious of all races is the Arms Race, the race to war, where it seems that the pace for bloodshed must exceed the depth and breadth of our unfolding fears. We race spectacularly into battle, but the withdrawal is slow and limp.

The Red Army’s race, in January and February of 1945, to Berlin, was one of pride and celebration, after the fear and aggravation that preceded their advance. They had resisted the German advance at Stalingrad, they had seen the Germans at the Volga, they had finally defied the myth of German invincibility. Hitler had said that Russia was like a rotting structure that once kicked, would soon fall. Germany made rapid progress and got to within 20 miles of the Kremlin in Moscow. But the winter came, and the snow fell on German soldiers and their machines, waiting outside the city. Soon, their supply lines struggled,, men fell and machines were crushed in ice. Not enough reached men bent on enduring a Russian winter. As supply lines failed, Stalin struck back and the tide turned.

Russian T-34 tanks covered 50 miles a day, as they advanced over Poland towards Germany. Once over the border, the Russians soon reached Berlin, and went from suburb, to street, to house in search of their target. Hitler’s bunker. That was a race, and a fiercely fought one. The Germans frantically resisted, knowing what they had done in their race to conquer other races. Hitler himself could not face his own defeat; he could not face those he had ordered others to destroy.
And the race is where I have dealt with defeat, or found myself first.

Whoever I am, whether I am a Spitz or a Stalin, an Armstrong, a Mandela or a Diana (Princess of Wales), my race has a common cause. A prize. It may be to simply be way, way ahead of someone beside me, or a bunker in a foreign capital, a maillot jeune (yellow jersey), it may be freedom or it may be a fairy tale.

For me it was all of these. When I was 11 years old, I dedicated myself to one race, over the course of a year. The prize lay in a faraway city, and there I would meet Luke Wollenschlaeger – a boy as big and powerful as his name, and younger than me. Winning meant I would get Free State colors, a green and orange tracksuit, and bathing costume. I decided that if I won, I would give myself the freedom to leave swimming, to try something else like rugby or tennis, to have friends over and play again, to retire from training all the time – for a while – having reached the top of my game.

My fairy tale, my dream was to be the number one swimmer in my province in the 50 m Free Style, in 1984. I spent a year pursuing this goal, training rigorously, focussing, avoiding distractions, turning down invitations to birthday parties or even school trips so I could train each day. Giving up soccer, and soda pop and chocolates. This was the biggest race, the biggest thing I had ever set my mind towards.

Yet I also remember a backstroke race at the university pool when I was about 12 years old. They said Derek Grant’s record was on the line. Everyone was aware of it.

In the end Charl Bormann came first, Almero Strauss was second and I was third, but all three of us broke the record that day. Derek was Penny’s son, and I remember that race for many reasons. There were a few rugby celebrities there, giving autographs. There was the calm satisfaction and congratulations from Penny, despite her knowing that we three had taken away her son’s record. The warmth of the gesture, the handshake, and behind the words was a sense of honor and respect that words don’t quite do justice.

At an interprimary gala we also broke a record by 13 seconds, and this went to the newspapers. I got a small silver trophy along with my teammates.

The 1500m is 30 lengths of an Olympic pool. Sometimes it’s hard to keep track. I was out to beat one particular rival. But I faded after about 200m and soon after last track of which length I was on, and then waited to see when the winner was home because then I knew I still had a 100m to go.

I’m sure I was last or second last, and came in perhaps even 3 lengths after the winner, if not more. But I remember that day like it was yesterday. I even remember thinking, hoping, that I might even win it. I swam this race when I was about 20, but what is important to me now is that spirit of adventure, going into the race. Before the race starts, anything is possible, and in that, lies the magic and the mystery. But the race itself is the truth, at that moment.

But none of these races, nor those Winter Championships in Sasolburg, or a 3.9km race in Korea in 2004, represented my Race of Truth. They were footnotes around it. I remember as a young swimmer, being stuck for months on 40 seconds in the 50m freestyle, and 1 minute 20 in the hundred metres. I remember doing a race after a holiday on the Wild Coast, and going about 2 seconds better. It showed me how hard work is important, but sometimes a good rest, a re-examination at the right time, can lead to a breakthrough.

After a few disappointing races, and thousands of hours in the pool, over 2 decades, Ryk Neethling quit swimming. But then he came back to it again, for the love of it. He says he swam for just half an hour a day in the beginning, and enjoyed it so much, he decided to swim more. And then he thought even further, about a gold medal. Not only was his body fresh, but his mind and spirit rejuvenated and clear. And that flows through the body into the water. He came back and he broke maybe a half dozen world records in 2005.

My Race of Truth though was about consistently applying discipline over a long period, working very hard, training when sick, or tired, or unhappy. Pursuing a goal with single-mindedness. It was about being hardcore, and I believe the little boy that I was…the 11 year old…showed a toughness that I have not seen since, not to that degree, even in these times, running marathons and training for the Ironman. I look to that little boy for courage and inspiration.

Harder

Childhood’s hopes and tears are bright and dark undertones ringing through the rest of our lives. The joys are strawberries and soft marshmallows. The pain is the metallic spike of blood streaming out of a stubbed toe or grazed knee. Beyond all of these are the spirits that flow into us of all our parents sins and insights. Some bring the beautiful lights of love that make a child feel valuable, others bring phallic monsters that torment and torture the child inside the child.

I had all of these and somehow in the naked context of swimming it seemed all the clearer, the light harsh in its goodness, the hurt too much and too soon it seemed, of a cross to bare.

With all the hopes and clear water ahead of me, what could have made the water rougher, the way tough and hard?
In a word: everything.

The strain on a rocket that is launching, is immense in those first few metres. If the hopes were not so ambitious, for space, the moon, or mars, the devils might be less frenetic in their quest to quash the rise from the ground, the ascent.
But I was ambitious.

The water attacked my ears. At the age of eight I had an operation to open up the channels in my ears and put miniature pipes in them (called grommets). A routine but painful procedure. This was a time of tears. And sleep deprivation as hot wax travelled through the night, dripping out of ears and onto the pillow. This effected school. And each day after school it was back in the pool. And the pain got worse.

I remember a few Saturday mornings, going to swimming as a matter of course, as a matter of routine. I remember being so overcome that I allowed myself to cry while swimming laps, and would hold back the tears once at the waters edge. It is easy to pull off. The tears are washed away in the pool, and the sounds, if any, lost in the gulps for air.

But sounds were made, and if you listened, in those short seconds turning underwater at the wall, you would have heard. It is a miserable noise. And there are few places worse to be crying than in a swimming pool.

The pain in the ears went away, and came back, and went away and came back.
Some of the strange condition (my ears seemed a lot more sensitive than the other swimmers) could be traced to swimming in a lagoon used by a lot of speedboats. It was called Umtimzini, on the Kwazulu Natal coast.

The lagoon was fairly small and shallow, and the oil(from outboard motors) floated in the water, and we swam (when we weren’t water-skiing) between these greasy rainbows. I probably swam the most in my family, or it was merely because I was the youngest, but my ears were never the same after that. My father had a few problems too, and still does, but none were as severe as mine.

Today I am 33 years old, I have had two holes in my left ear drum. One by the gradual chemical eating of chlorine – as a result of continuous exposure to swimming pool water. The other due to an impact while playing in the sea of the South Korean Island of Jeju, on the eve of an Ironman race. The impact was a powerful one, but one wonders if a stronger ear would have been able to stand the jet of water that spurted into it ahead of the knee.

The doctor told me yesterday: ‘There is scar tissue surrounding the rupture in your eardrum. Over the next 10 years you will gradually lose your hearing in your left ear.’

This statement is simple and possible to say, but to absorb, less so. Is it the swimming pool that is to blame, or the chlorine, or the oil in the lagoon, or are the flower whorls just to soft to stand so much sun and surf? Should I have stopped swimming altogether when the pain started?
Who knows?

What I do know is it started with the ears, and then it spread. My nose would bleed. Just the heat, or the merest nudge, and blood would stream out of it.
In spring, when the grasses began to grow out of the turgid brown earth, the buds threw blossoms and spores in the air, my whole body would swell and sneeze and redden. The hay fever was as bad as a cold. Mucous streaming out of the nose, a blocked nose at night. Swimming seemed to exacerbate the condition. It was as if the spores lay on the water and swimming across it meant they got sucked into you.
And then there was the throat. And colds and colds and colds and eventually the tonsils were sliced out. Swimming had to wait during these visits to the anaesthetist. But always swimming was there, surrounding it all, continuing in every moment of wellness, and often when I was not well.

What made it hard was that I was alone with these complications. My brother suffered none of these symptoms. Neither did other swimmers. To add insult to injury, a ENT specialist finally told me I had to wear a noseclip over my nose, and stuff prestik in my ears. If I really wanted to swim he said, that’s what I’d need to do.

But he said I should give up because my body just could not stand it. (He meant my ears).

I wore the damn noseclip. It was held in place with a lose rubber band, and after a few days I had a permanent white line from ear to nose, hold back the freckles, and betraying to the boys at school that I was swimming…that I was swimming a lot.
The prestik in my ears came after the first hole in my eardrum. That made life a lot more difficult. It is hard enough to listen to a coach when your head is in the water and you are being screamed instructions. It is harder still to do complicated workouts on a descending time frame and you were too slow to pull the plugs out when the instructions came. Also once the plugs were out, the seal wasn’t always very easy to maintain. So you tried to leave them in and listen. Not easy. A strain. Mentally a strain. Spiritually, often, demoralising.

I even managed to become allergic to beestings. And if you ask yourself what insect is most likely to fly around a swimming pool, the answer would be…bees.
When you are little you are endowed with greater power and resilience perhaps than any other time. The little man can walk tall through all the things that seem to be set to make him fail. But the heart inside is big, and powerful, and the body strong, despite the small bones, and crevices in the head, spiking with blood and wax and phlegm.

There were two girls called Bronwyn and Kerryn, and they were faster than I was, and bigger, although the same age. And I was starting to catch them. I could sense it, I could see it, I could feel it. Their hormones were slowing them down, making their waists and busts grow. I was getting faster. Faster than them, and faster than all the boys in my age group, and many of the older boys too. And this meant that the rocket and it’s interminable weight was at last shifting upward, despite all the snakes snared along its torso. Despite the weight and depression holding it down, it fired against the dull Earth towards the blue.

I continued to fire, despite the cracks, the strain, the creaking of my young limbs, and the blood and tears seeping into the chlorinated water.

I was strong, but not always strong enough to hold back tears in the water, on those days that became too much. And some of the swimmers saw or thought they saw something. A flaw. And this they would hold onto for when the time came. For the great races.