The rules of swimming
The rules here are different than that sign-full-of-rules you see in pools. “No running No petting No diving.” In those glass and concrete cathedrals to swimming, packed with awkward teenagers, stuffy with chlorine-and-urine tinged air, hot and cold at the same time, filled with the sounds of splashing and laughter echoing round and round until it is almost unbearable, I would happily ignore those warnings that no fun should be had.
Here though we are told — or I hear — “Don’t swim close to the cliffs, there are landslides from tremors, you may be showered with rocks; Look where you are going at all times, so that you can spy the long tentacles of a jellyfish the moment before its sting whips and lashes your cheek and makes you cry; Never, ever, approach the boat from the back, very bad things will happen and you may be caught and shredded by churning propellors; Swim together, stay in a line, count your buddies” I nod grimly, acknowledging the seriousness and obedience that these rules require.
I, of course, will follow my own rules here:
Do not lower yourself timidly down the ladder into the ocean, but jump with abandon from the pontoon while yelling; Do not think that the water is deep and scary, instead remember how buoyant you feel and how hard it was to dive down below to look at the fishes without popping back up; Do not feel tired battling the waves, move with their rhythm, breathe when they breathe, feel their crests and troughs, embrace them. Above all, do not feel afraid or alone in this giant sea, with every turn of your head to breathe, spy your buddy swimming beside you, matching your stroke, waiting for you, experiencing what is below and what is above the water, in utter bliss, just as you do.
