As a child, I was introduced to swimming lessons but never truly learned how to swim. Fear overwhelmed me, and I eventually stopped trying. Perhaps it was the jellyfish sting I suffered in the Chesapeake Bay that instilled that fear, or witnessing my younger brother almost drown in a motel pool, with my father—who also couldn’t swim—jumping in to save him. Ultimately, it was my mother who had to intervene and rescue both of them using a pool pole.
When my own children came along, I was determined that they would not share my fate of being landlocked. My husband also lacked swimming skills, so it became crucial for me that my children knew how to save themselves. Throughout preschool, I took my daughter, Lily, to swimming lessons weekly. Unfortunately, by the end, she was so frightened she wouldn’t even dip her toes in the water.
Finally, I told her, “You don’t have to go anymore.” Her relieved “Thank you so much, Mommy,” accompanied by a tight hug, filled me with a bittersweet emotion. I repeated this with Lily’s younger sister, Zoe, but I quickly gave up when she too became disheartened.
While I cherished those hugs, the reasons behind them hurt my heart. I feared my daughters would grow up feeling left out and sidelined, just as I did. Surprisingly, a few years later, both my city kids managed to teach themselves how to swim.
I vividly remember one day at the pool when Lily ran along the edge, leaped into the deep end without hesitation, and let out a joyful shout. Normally, I would have reprimanded her for running, but the weight of my past failures hit me hard. Tears streamed down my face while I stood safely in the hot tub, hidden behind my sunglasses as I tried to regain my composure.
Later that summer, we visited a friend, Sarah, on the North Shore of Oahu. She organized a kayaking adventure for herself and Lily. As I watched them paddle away into the vast ocean, I felt a mixture of pride and anxiety. When they returned, Zoe eagerly demanded her turn, and without waiting for my consent, she jumped in with Lily.
After their kayaking excursion, Sarah asked if I wanted to join. Panic rushed through me as I thought of all the reasons I should decline: fear of drowning, getting water in my nose, and ruining my hair. Yet, I pictured myself as a mere observer on the shore, smiling but missing out. In that moment, I took a leap of faith and asked Sarah, “Can you save me if needed?” She confidently replied, “Yes.”
With that reassurance, I donned the life vest and climbed into the kayak. To my astonishment, I found joy in paddling along with Sarah, feeling the ocean’s power beneath me. I waved at Lily, who cheered from the shore, and when I returned to the beach, she ran to me and enveloped me in a hug, understanding the significance of my decision to join in.
Despite my experiences, I still hadn’t learned to swim that summer or the next. After my marriage ended, my daughters and I joined a local YMCA, where I finally took my first swimming lesson in three decades. I got wet, inhaled some water, and thankfully didn’t drown, yet I still didn’t learn how to swim. Life’s challenges, including divorce and raising children, continued to sideline my swimming ambitions.
For a long time, I viewed my inability to swim as a failure, especially when my daughters initially followed my example. Yet, they both eventually learned to swim. This revelation led me to reconsider my legacy. While I may never learn to swim, I realized that the most valuable lesson I can impart to my daughters is the importance of trying, even in the face of fear. In that regard, I have succeeded.
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In summary, while not mastering swimming may seem like a shortcoming, the true legacy I leave for my children is one of resilience and perseverance. They have witnessed me confront my fears, and that example might just be the most important lesson of all.