Lessons in Water: A Memoir

A Manual, or, How to Keep from Drowning

This article is part of the Claritas Fall 2022 issue, Mystery. Read the full print release here.

By Nate Lo

The first thing is to find your body. Most people think the eyes are first, but really, it’s the nose—water rushes to fill empty spaces. I now teach children to continually blow air out of their nose. Eventually, you run out and must lift your head to breathe before enveloping your nose again. Expel life to keep death out

I remember fear, even with my father waiting in the shallows below. I could see straight through to the bottom—we often mistake clarity for courage—but I knew where death lurked, even after chlorination.

Next, you learn to float. Which really means you learn to kick, because our bodies naturally sink and the only way to prevent it is to fight back. Eventually, your kicks become so imperceptible that it looks like you are lying motionless on the surface, hovering over the deep.

In Genesis, the Spirit of God sweeps over the face of the waters. A swooping butterfly, if you will, which I can only hope inspired the creature that flutters at the same rate you need to kick to stay aloft, stave off flailing and chaos.

When it is time to bring in the arms, remember that they aren’t necessarily meant to do this. Rotator cuffs aren’t used to windmilling the mass of our bodies. Imagine pulling your legs and torso through a faceless void one hand at a time. Repeat this liturgy until you hit a wall, curl up, and unravel out of the womb.

We are not born swimming. We are born out of swimming. I am perturbed by this fact and resist the suggestion that I should do it more often. I cry, leaking out my amniotic past.

We must cover our eyes to see. I marvel at the miracle of clear plastic and soft rubber. Light refracts, slowing down approximately 75,000 kilometers per second when it hits water. We slow down too, straining to grasp depths too wonderful for us, mischievous gurgle where the light hides.

This is the hardest part—learn to breathe mid-stroke. At first it will feel natural and right to untuck your chi —don’t do this. Otherwise, you will see too much of the world above. Tempted to return to your old way of life, your hips will sink. Instead, simply turn your ear towards the sky and listen for affirmation. This is my son, whom I love. With him I am well-pleased.

Someone will try to see if they can touch the wall first. Indulge your desire to reciprocate. You wonderwhy you care so much to win, and the sadness of loss invites you to reconsider why anyone would intentionally reverse entropy.

7-years-old. I try to quit the swim team after one lap and run away into the woods. Even then, mud cleaves to my ankles, moisture bonding me wholly to the earth. You learn quickly that you cannot reverse immersion.

Eventually, the water will wear on you. Your shoulders will broaden to accommodate. Perhaps also your abdomen will harden to efficiently rotate ribs and hips. Now you can cut through, separate the waters, and nestle your body in its cradle.

Entry and re-entry require repetition. Rest your chin on your chest, coil your quads and hamstrings, await the explicit command. Gunshot. Electronic beep. “Go!” Hands – head – heart – hips – feet. This is how others will know that you are a disciple: your muscles involuntarily twitch at the sound of love.

Your muscles may protest overuse. Someone may tell you to pop a pill and proceed. This is tricky: press on and your heart may expand the length of a flood, but push too far and your ligaments will inflame, smolder into twisted embers’ hiss. You must learn to transform repetition into resilience, inhabit the ark of your body for when there is no end in sight.

August 2008. Michael Phelps wins 8 gold medals at the Summer Olympics. I am ecstatic. I also tell people that there will be too many wannabes at swim team tryouts this year. They are fascinated by the social phenomenon. They don’t understand the cacophony of too many bodies and water.

To knife quickly through a body with your body, mimic those that have come before. A dolphin is an especially helpful mentor if you can find one. If not, consider the hovering Spirit that paints beauty with undulation.

College, sophomore year. Bacteria infects my foot; a deep, angry red. I watch my teammates from the deck. Water calling out to water, deep crying out to deep – my heart throbbing up from the floor through my legs, arms crossed restlessly to restrain the current.

When swimming on your back, you must discipline your neck but loosen your shoulders. Reach back and catch with your forearms, guiding water past your hips. The temptation is complacency, the invitation is to rest. These are not the same thing. I have found it difficult to separate the two when lying on land.

Practice recognizing water’s voice. You must feel the hum in your bones, the rush of life pressing up against your skin. So attuned, you will consider the possibility that you may never be thirsty again. To maintain equilibrium, learn the difference between what to keep out and what to drink in.

Recently, I’ve had to swim in daydreams. It’s not the same—I don’t know how to recall what my body only knows by doing. It does remind me to prostrate my body when I pray. I ask God if he recalls his first encounter with water, but he only gives a wry smile and tells me to ask his mother.

This article appeared in Claritas’ Fall 2023 Mystery Issue.