I often reflect on my own swimming lessons from childhood. My initiation took place in the chilly waters off the coast of the south of France. The waves loomed large to my nine-year-old self, the ocean floor felt impossibly distant, and I battled with seaweed that wrapped around my legs. I choked on salty water, my eyes stung, and my throat burned for days. My stepfather was there, nudging me deeper into the surf, laughing in a way that lacked warmth. Though I was never truly in peril, it took me years to swim with any sense of joy.
Now, two decades later, I find myself watching my son as he learns to swim. He’s the smallest in his class, his fair skin glowing under the afternoon sun. Clad in a vibrant blue swim cap and goggles, he proudly wears a laminated swim card around his neck. Each week, he expresses his pride in being part of this community of learners. While waiting for lessons to commence, we play “I Spy” along the poolside—F for flag, L for lifejacket.
It’s been over a year since we started this journey. In the beginning, he was filled with fear, often crying at the thought of sinking. He would ask what would happen if he went under and I didn’t notice. I could see the worst-case scenarios playing out in his mind. I reassured him that I wasn’t the only one watching—everyone was keeping an eye on him, and no one would let him sink. Slowly, he began to trust his instructors, gentle young men who patiently guided him into the warm waters of our local pool. They were encouraging and kind, showing him that swimming could indeed be enjoyable.
Recently, my son advanced to a new group, leaving behind the floats and treasure chests filled with plastic toys. The days of crawling along the wall are gone; he is now diving into the serious art of swimming, a demanding endeavor. Even within a short half-hour lesson, I can see him growing tired. Nevertheless, he is in the safest of hands. When he struggles to lift his legs high enough, the instructors support him from beneath. As his arms flail in an attempt to swim, they calmly guide his movements. They maintain the perfect distance—close enough to catch him, yet far enough to challenge him. It’s truly a sight to behold.
As the lessons begin, I observe other parents retreating into their books or their phones, relishing a brief break. But, like the quintessential over-involved mom, I can’t take my eyes off my son. I don’t want to miss a single moment. Occasionally, he scans the stands for me; when he spots me, he beams and waves before returning his focus to the water.
I delight in watching him laugh and chat with the instructors—these sweet, capable young men in their late teens and early twenties who instinctively understand that a gentle approach is most effective. Names like Liam, Noah, and Jake fill the air, their accents a reminder of how different this experience is from my own.
When the lesson ends, he scuttles over to me, teeth chattering and a pink mark lining his forehead from the swim cap. I’m ready with a towel to wrap him up and a juice box for him to enjoy. He shares the exciting news that next week, during the last lesson of the term, they will get to jump into the deep end for the first time. Despite being cold and tired, his eyes sparkle with anticipation. This is how it should be. I am profoundly grateful for this journey.
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In summary, watching my son learn to swim has been a rewarding experience, filled with trust, patience, and joy. It’s a reminder of the importance of support and guidance in any learning journey.
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