Taking a swim down memory lane

When I attended the University of North Texas, all degree plans required students to complete four physical education classes. Options included typical sports plus an array of crowd-pleasers such as aerobic dancing, bowling and line dancing.
One semester I enrolled in ballet, revisiting skills I’d last practiced in first grade. I attempted to take team handball during a summer session, but I misunderstood the meaning of the sport when I registered. I showed up thinking I’d learn how to use a racket but instead found myself on a basketball court, expected to dribble and throw a ball. (There were perils to life pre-Google.) I dropped the class the same day.
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I took a diving class, apparently at that time not afraid to scale a 33-foot ladder, perch on the edge of a board and plummet headfirst into the deep end.
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And I took two swim classes, both of which were designed for serious swimmers, likely people who had been on high school teams. Swim conditioning provided no instruction, in fact. You’d show up and read a chalkboard with a long list of instructions scribbled in shorthand. For the first few days of class, I would scan the pool for friendly faces — not easy given how little I could see without my glasses — and ask for someone to help interpret.
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I eventually got the hang of it, learning how to use a kickboard to strengthen my legs and a pull buoy to shore up my arms. I sort of learned the butterfly, did OK on the breast stroke, and felt strongest on the freestyle and backstroke. I could even perform a successful flip turn to shave seconds off my lap time. I was in the best shape possible for someone who subsisted mostly on Little Debbie snack cakes and Diet Coke and weighed 100 pounds.
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(During one of those semesters, I was walking across campus when I spied a fellow swimmer. I waved. He passed by. He doubled back and exclaimed, “I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on!” It took hours for me to recover from embarrassment.)
The idea of all those PE classes, I presume, was to introduce students to healthy habits that we could carry into adulthood and hold on to for life.
I have not danced a step of ballet since my final exam in 1991. There have been no high-dive hijinks. But I have held on to swimming off and on throughout the past 30 years, even competing in a couple of sprint triathlons.
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My go-to exercise, though, has been neighborhood walks with friends — until severe tendinitis in my left ankle sidelined me in 2020. I am still recovering from reconstruction surgery in January and have been feeling low about decreased physical activity. Then I recalled that swimming is a good low-impact exercise option.
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During the past few weeks, I’ve been waking up early, pulling on a swimsuit, driving five miles east to my city’s athletic center, securing a swim cap and goggles on my head, and climbing into the lap pool. I swim for at least 30 minutes nonstop.
Well, the first visit I swam for 20 minutes with many breaks. But swimming is like riding a bike, and I soon found my rhythm.
On the days that I swim, I feel more energized, and on the days that I miss, I feel a little adrift. Now, I’m not a natural athlete. My 5-foot-4 frame won’t intimidate anyone in the water, and I’m often the slowest swimmer among my morning companions.
Completing those workouts makes me feel more confident, though, and my ankle barely hurts when I’m in the water. (I’m definitely not attempting a flip turn yet.) Those early morning workouts are also one of the only times that I’m not trying to do too much. I’m not listening to an audiobook or podcast. I’m not reading news on my phone. I’m not at a keyboard or folding laundry or chopping veggies for dinner. It’s just me and the water and my thoughts.
I can puzzle over a problem. Plan my day. Pray. Or I can lose track of everything except my breathing and glide through the water like it’s 1993.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.