At the height of the second summer of the pandemic, feeling beaten down by
waves of bad news, endless restrictions and dull repetition, I found my refuge
where I least expected it – our local swimming pool.
Swimming has never been something I sought out
for recreation or exercise. Growing up there were swimming lessons every
summer, and I could handle myself in the water. Other than family vacations and
trips to the pool with the kids it was just never one of my favourite
activities. It was too wet, too cold, too inconvenient, and public change rooms
made me uncomfortable. I was indifferent to the backyard pool at our last home;
it was unheated and until the odd week in late July or early August when the
kids would shout “it’s 85!” I was reluctant to take the plunge.
That Covid
summer had been especially hot and boring. We were relative newcomers to town
so I had few close friends and I missed my old ones. With most social
activities cancelled or restricted and suffering from an overload of spousal
togetherness the aquafit classes offered by the City seemed a relaxing way to get
a little exercise, cool off and meet safely with other people. And it wouldn’t
really be swimming.
If you have only ever visited
Stratford for our famous theatre and fine-dining restaurants or to stroll by the
chichi boutiques along the main drag, then you may have missed our best-kept
secret.
Tucked away at the far end
of the park and behind the downtown core, past the picnic spots and art show,
beyond the boathouse where the ducks and swans compete for tossed grain, just
where the river lazily makes its way over the dam and under the willow trees sits
my oasis.
A fixture in the town since 1932 the Lions
pool is not modern or fancy and the change rooms in the old building could use
an upgrade. It’s all concrete floors and wooden benches with no lockers or
cubbies but the pool itself has had multiple renovations. Instead of a shallow
end there is a graduated children’s splash area with buckets that fill and
empty over squealing kids and a palm tree that showers a dome-like waterfall
over those beneath it. The deeper area can be converted for lane swims, lessons
and Bronze Cross qualifiers and of course the twice-daily aquafit class. Best
of all, it is heated. It became the highlight of my day.
Each morning from July onward found me
making my way to the pool, bathing suit on under my cover-up and flip flops on
my feet - my mother had instilled the fear of plantar warts in me from a young
age.
Emerging onto the pool deck, I was met by the sight of 10 or so women,
floating and fluttering around, chatting cheerfully, waiting for the
instructor. Shyly removing my cover-up, I quickly immersed my less-than-fit,
66-year-old body in the water.
My fellow swimmers came in
all shapes and sizes and none seemed to have the usual concern or embarrassment
that comes with exposing oneself in a swimsuit. Mostly senior ladies, we came
with an assortment of pallid flesh, chicken-wing arms, leg and butt flab and varicose
veins. My own perceived deficiencies were minor and my shyness unnecessary.
There was one remarkable
exception in this bevy of bathing belles.
About 78 years of age, Sandy
wore her long silver hair tied up in a Barbie-doll ponytail. She was lithe, fit
and tanned; a gold bangle sparkled on one wrist and she sported oversized
Jackie Onassis sunglasses. Her bathing suit, a colourful strapless one-piece of
large tropical flowers, fit her slim frame perfectly and accentuated every
curve, and she walked and swam with the confidence of a 25-year-old. She
flirted shamelessly with the young male lifeguards, calling to them by name in
her charming British accent. She had a different bathing suit for every day of
the week, each more spectacular than the last, and basked in our oohs and aahs
each time she made her entrance.
By contrast, my suit was a slightly faded,
much stretched piece that I rinsed out daily.
She was the pretty, popular girl in high school around whom others
buzzed like bees around a fragrant flower.
As the self-appointed
aquafit greeter, whenever someone new entered the pool she swam over,
introduced herself, and presented them to the other bathers. This was a group
that had been getting together all, and indeed every, summer for a very long
time. It was as though I had floundered into a meeting of a friendly but
exclusive club. Newbies came and went but a very serious core of women formed
the nucleus of the class.
Now, by serious I don’t
mean their dedication to water exercise. While a few of them half-heartedly followed
the instructor’s directions, there was more chatting than effort going on at
the back of the class and it was clear that this group was there for the
socializing. The young women who led the classes had obviously given up trying
to control them and carried on cheerfully through the routines with an attitude
of “well, they paid their money, I guess they can do what they like.” To more
serious exercisers the chatter was likely annoying and a bit rude but it soon
became obvious that this was a caring and supportive group who just happened to
come together in the pool.
Absences were noticed and
concern was raised. When one woman announced the death of her father, there was
an outpouring of support. We followed and gave advice on the dating experiences
of a much younger bather who sought our collective wisdom. News of
grandchildren was celebrated and surgeries and illnesses were dissected. We evolved
into a beautiful bubble of support and friendship. Never once did we discuss
the pandemic. We laughed a lot, and as the summer progressed I felt my cares
wash away in the water and in their camaraderie.
Every weekday morning for
that entire summer I bounced, stretched, splashed and treaded water with those
ladies. Beneath the stretch marks, surgery scars and jiggly flesh every one of
us was beautiful and I felt part of something very special.
It is well-known that
being in, on or around water has restorative properties. As my sagging body
became a little fitter so did my flagging spirit. And for one golden hour out
of each day the chaos of pandemic life was forgotten.
***
Laurie Childs retired as a financial
services professional in 2014. She is a proud grandmother of 4 and a compulsive
volunteer. Her other interests include travelling, rambling walks, music,
theatre and the Sunday New York Times crossword. She has hundreds of stories in
her head and is thrilled to finally have the time to write them down. Laurie
lives in Stratford, Ontario where she is enthusiastically waiting for the pool
to reopen.
See Brian
Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.
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