Two thirds of the people who drown are strong swimmers.
That’s arguably more myth than fact. After all, between the strong and the weak swimmer it is unlikely that the weak one would make it to shore. But it consoles an unathletic like me, who can’t get past floating and, therefore, is not ever going to become a strong swimmer and unlikely to depart from this world by drowning.
The strong swimmers can have the deep and wide blue ocean with all its sharks and sea monsters; perhaps some statistics will also show fewer people attacked by them. Yet, as silly as it may sound, that’s what I fear more than drowning, the real reason I’ve backed out of cruises, though these are among the things in my bucket list, and also why at beach resorts I stay dry.
Near-drowning, at least by my limited experience, is no big deal. It isn’t the violent gasping for air or the thrashing about in wild desperation, one might imagine it to be. It is silent and serene, a balletic slow motion under water.
I was about 10 when I nearly drowned in the pool of the Wack Wack Golf and Country Club. I had somehow slipped through the hole of my rubber tube. But I didn’t panic; I could see Mom and Dad sitting by the pool steps half-submerged. I was in fact calling out to Dad, wondering impatiently why he didn’t seem to hear me. In the nick of time, he did notice the empty rubber tube and immediately dove in for me. The experience is etched in my memory almost as vividly as the club’s blueberry pie it was once famous for.
Aquabelles
Despite a more sober attitude toward drowning, I remain terrified of the silent, deep and seemingly boundless sea and its fabled mysteries. I’m less afraid in a swimming pool, of course, where I can see the easily reachable side railings and the steps. I also know exactly what’s in the water with me. All safety requirements I need are met. Still, I’m not drawn to swimming as an exercise, and just as well: I’ve stopped looking good in a swimsuit.
And, even if I look less offensive in a gym suit, tread-milling, too, doesn’t appeal; it seems joyless and boring. I’ve dropped out of gym classes and health clubs and have many unworn outfits. My husband frowns upon ballroom dancing. But move I must, as Michelle Obama counsels, or perish!
I found my thing when I joined the Aquabelles. I only had to try it once and got hooked. For nearly a year now, I’ve been waking up at 7 three times a week, no matter how late I slept the night before.
If anything, the outfit did it. Rash guard is just the perfect swimsuit for matrons; it hides everything except face and neck and hands and feet, just about what we can still show in public. Rounding out the masquerade are sunglasses and varied floppy hats, the latter just about the only thing that distinguishes us from one another. If not for them, there could be an imposter in the pool and we’d never know.
We exercise in a medium-sized pool four feet deep all over—perfect for aqua aerobics! It helps that I’m in the company of fellow seniors in more or less the same state of disfigurement and degenerative muscle control.
Senior-friendly
We exercise to lively modern beats under the watchful eye of a female instructor who knows all our particular weaknesses and special needs and addresses them by giving each of us the suitable alternative movements. It almost feels like dancing, with absolutely no danger of hurting oneself or overdoing anything. The most perilous time is getting in and out of the pool, although the pool is senior-friendly enough.
Tennis elbow
After nearly a year in aqua aerobics, my tennis elbow is all but gone, as mysteriously as it had appeared since I play no tennis.
My husband, Vergel, does. I’m guessing that, after all those many years of hard tennis—there’s no other way he plays it—he must have his own aches and pains. Anyway, he neither admits to nor dwells on them, although he does wear braces on one knee and ankle.
When he comes home he puts ice packs here and there, which I try not to notice. He remains the man to avoid on the court; no victory can be won from him, because he’s good and old, in fact the oldest tournament player in his club. I’ve seen opponents hurt themselves playing him, and that’s why I never envied athletes. I’ll never appreciate getting all sweaty, water-wet yes, but never sweaty, not to say getting hurt.
However, after we came home from our eight-day tour of Japan, I started feeling excruciating pain in my left Achilles tendon, which has no place in a non-athlete’s ankle. I was doing 10,000 steps a day, as only I should, but, according to Google, I may have overdone it and caused something to swell or grown spurs or torn something.
I tried to make an appointment with my GP doctor, but he decided to take a break during the Association of Southeast Asian Nations Summit. In any case, as soon as I returned to my aqua classes, little by little the pain eased, until it disappeared. I’m back in the groove again, effortlessly doing what I could never do on dry land, and for a full hour! I’m a different person altogether in safe waters. Who cares if I can barely swim!
