The world whirled white around me. It swooshed and roared in my ears. And then my father ruined his watch, yanking me out of the pool and pummelling the water out of my nine-year-old body. My mother, who had bad memories of a strong current and a woollen swimsuit, never forced the issue. For 15 years I avoided anything deeper than a bath, until, grudgingly, I learned a flailing breast-paddle. And in more recent years I perched at the side of holiday pools, hoping our boys would not inherit my anxiety as their own swimming improved.
Last year, for medical reasons, I was unable to run or cycle and feared I would lose my marbles and gain a stone. So I went to the local pool, and bashed up and down like a puppy in a panic. And then I met Peter Conway of Swim Ireland, who was coaching some of my Irish Times colleagues to Swim for a Mile. Just turn up one day, he said, and see how you get on. I didn’t have time to articulate just how pitiful a swimmer I was, how weird it would feel to wear my swimsuit at work (almost), and how terrifying I’d find the whole thing. So I turned up. I thought of Mam and her soggy togs. I put on the goggles and took a big gulp. I put my face in the water and I moved my arms and legs. And after a few more classes I realised that full lungs keep you up, that thrashing slows you down and that underwater is a calming place.
I am not a confident swimmer; I flounder when out of my depth and, occasionally, a flashback to that nine-year-old day swims through my head. But, this summer holiday, I swam lengths and took breaths in blue bliss while the boys perfected their synchronised cannonball jumps. I don’t know who among us was most surprised.
