I never learned how to swim.

Like many people, I went to swimming lessons as a kid, along with my good-at-every-sport cousin. One day I got sick and missed the class; it was the same day he came back home joyfully announcing that they had removed the floaties from everyone! The worst spoiler of my life, only after someone told me Leonardo Dicaprio died at the end of Titanic, and a Game of Thrones fan posted about the tragic red wedding too soon. I never returned to swimming lessons after that. My intentions to swim died like (ironically drowning) Jack and half the Starks.

Growing up in Mexico City with a working single mom, I didn’t get to go to pools often. I went to the beach for the first time when I was 17 years old. A little too late. During my adult life, I became comfortable with the embarrassing fact of not knowing how to swim and even more comfortable wearing a fluorescent life vest.

To be honest, my not-swimming bothers people more than it does me. You’d be surprised by all those friends who have confidently offered to teach me while we’re on holiday, and there are 400 more interesting things to do in our destination. And good intentions fade out easily with margaritas.

Everyone tells me swimming is a life-saving skill. I live in New York, which requires a few life skills more important than that, like gracefully dodging rats on a sidewalk at night or commuting with the G train. Also, I go to a beach/pool destination once a year, twice when I’m lucky. I have swum in the ocean, lakes, and cenotes, and I love snorkeling—all tourist activities I can safely enjoy with an ugly but marvelous life vest. No floaties, in case you’re wondering. As per all the arguments questioning what’d happen in an emergency if I didn’t have a life vest (which is unlikely considering the above), I know survival would make me swim. I know that. Fear is a great skill catalyzer. People always roll their eyes here.

Last January, I went to Baja California Sur with my boyfriend, who is part of the “Swimming is a life-saving skill” club. We were talking in the hotel room—it was too late to go out for dinner—and the swimming topic came up again. He gets frustrated at my stubbornness of not wanting to learn, which in turn intensifies with his insistence. But besides the swimming issue, I’m a very open and curious person. I love learning new things and taking on impossible challenges, like learning adult ballet or trying to understand physics with no scientific background.

So that night, after a heated yet rational conversation, I made the unthinkable promise to learn to swim (or at least try). Almost against my will, but a promise still. However, it may have also been a negotiation. Considering it’s a big deal for me to commit to this, I requested a free pass to ask him for an equally difficult challenge in the future. I have no idea when or what it’ll be, but he’ll have to agree. I saw fear in his eyes. But we shook hands, and dangerous Western movie music played in the background.

As I write these words, I’m two days away from taking my very first lesson. I ordered some low-key swimsuits, a few of them because reviews never agree about the sizing. I ordered two pair of goggles—a pair that I hope I can use with my contacts on, and a “corrective” pair, which I learned exists for poor-eyesighted people like me (wearing contacts is a major barrier in the water, and wearing no contacts would make me a hazard for others). I also ordered two swimming caps, and I dread trying them on. I can’t believe the swimming attire is so unattractive (I mean, worse than life vests). At the same time, that will help me to stay as anonymous as possible.

I’m about to document a challenge that I have not much interest in taking, but I hope I can surprise myself along the way. Nothing better than proving myself wrong. With writing, at least, I feel like a fish in water. Duh.

...

Today it’s my first class, and I may have realized that my cynicism about swimming was actually covering my deep fear of it. I learned fears from my mother, whom I can't blame. She was only 22 years old when she had me. I've heard the word "fear" many times from her. We share a fear of cockroaches, extreme avoidance of the ocean and waves, fear of diabetes, stray dogs, and ghosts (like the one residing in my childhood home). I managed to get rid of some of her fears, like walking alone at night in the city, burglars, aging (kind of), dying, and eating vegetables, but still have others to work on.

A couple of hours before the class, my stomach felt weird, and I got sick. I genuinely didn't know my fear was so deep, but my body talked. I didn't want to miss my first class. Fortunately, after four bathroom visits, I felt better and went.

On the first day at something, even simple things feel strange. I arrived at the women's locker rooms like it was an expedition. I also joined the course two weeks after it started, which doesn’t make it easier. I chatted with another girl who’s in the same class and she explained what to do and where to go. She never learned how to swim but is not afraid of water. She's planning to start surfing in the summer, and the surf group, understandably so, asked her to learn to swim first. I love New York's ambitious standards. My main goal is to learn how to swim, hopefully in this lifetime. I'll leave surfing for another life.

When I entered the very small pool area, I was surprised yet relieved to see a lifeguard there. I met my teacher, informed her about my non-swimming condition, and tried to catch up with the class. I was somehow expecting a group of older adults (not sure why), but found a very diverse group of young adults. You could count all the minorities in the group—not a single white person. People out there fighting for inclusion and diversity, giving Oscars as statements, and we all cohabit beautifully in a Brooklyn YMCA. Although, what really hit me was seeing other non-swimmers, perfectly normal people that are not natural in the water. I finally got into a pool with people like me! I’m not as special or weird as I thought, and my heart is happy. But the class is only 45 minutes long, so I didn’t have time to think about this there.

Honestly, a 45-minute class is too short. I barely understood what the teacher said, but I tried. My cap covered my ears, hence I couldn’t hear well. It was confusing to be in a foreign foggy environment with a strong chlorine smell. I didn’t even know that you have to breathe differently when swimming, inhaling through the mouth and exhaling through the nose, making bubbles. My swimmer friends forgot to explain the breathing part all these years. It goes against all my yoga and ballet principles. Water got into my nose and mouth a few times, so if the Covid bleach theory is right, I’ll be protected for a while. My goggles were tight, uncomfortable, and foggy, but I could finally open my eyes in the water with contacts on. Life-changing.

The golden moment was at the end. The teacher got us all out of the pool and mentioned the word “jump”. I didn’t like that, but suddenly I found myself at the end of the line waiting for my turn to jump into the water. There was no platform, just floor level at the edge of the pool. I had never done that in my life, and I was not the only one. Every beautiful and brave grown-up in front of me struggled to do it. They hesitated, took a step back, a nervous step forward, once again, and finally did it. The girl before me, who may have been the only one more scared than I was, did it while the teacher held her hand from inside the water. Then my turn came, it was late, and all the others had jumped. I stood on the edge and knew I couldn’t do it. It was too far, my 5'7" height felt like a cliff. Why would someone do it? How do you breathe? What happens when you’re in the water? It’s like falling into a black hole. I know enough about black holes to never jump into one. And this felt like it. I asked the teacher for instructions. The rest observed patiently. She came out of the water to tell me what to do, which I know is pretty obvious, but that bought me some time. I asked her to go inside the water so she could save me. Then, the worst happened. The adults I’d been cherishing in my heart for almost 45 minutes started to cheer me. They hid behind the anonymity of a ten-people blurry smelly space and joyfully encouraged me to jump. Traitors!!! I would’ve supported their cowardliness if they needed me to. I found myself in the terrible position of my dignity getting into the mix. So I had to do it. I don’t remember how I jumped, I’m sure it wasn’t graceful. I don’t know how I fell into the water or how I came back afloat, but I heard them celebrating. Then the class was over. No one played “We are the Champions.” A huge miss, IMO.

I did something I never thought I’d do in my life. I like the feeling of starting something new as an adult. It’s humbling, humiliating, and profound. When I started ballet a few years ago, I’d never felt so ashamed, challenged, and fascinated by something. Learning as an adult is like being a toddler over and over again. I recommend it.

…

Let's not fool ourselves, I won't learn to swim by taking a 45-minute class weekly. Therefore, I have decided to get some practice during the week. Luckily, there are some available calendar slots for Adult Laps in the center. I am genuinely bothered by the effects of chlorine on my hair, skin, and lungs, but I have to do this. The mission now is swimming!

This time, I felt more familiar. I knew where to go and where to put my stuff. There is always a lifeguard, and they go from being relaxed and almost bored to unsettled and alert when I enter the pool. I doubt any of them have ever jumped to save someone there, but I can tell they think this might be the day. I feel them staring at me as they stand up and walk, holding their Baywatch red thing in case they need to throw it at me. I cannot hide my non-experience. It took two minutes for the lifeguard to ask me to swim back and forth only up to the 5’4’ depth line, which is like 5 feet distance. My tolerance for embarrassment is steadily increasing.

I have absolutely no recognition of my "water body" - if that's a thing. After so many years out of the water, my body only knows the gravity of the ground and the resistance of the air. My ballet teacher would not be proud of my coordination under the water (maybe not even out of it).

If I continue trying to swim, it may happen. And all those lifeguards will return to being bored and relaxed. You're welcome!

…

I talked to my therapist about it. Of course, this swimming thing has a significant meaning in life, as everything does. It's about control. Control is my survival mechanism; it gives me the impression that I'm in charge of my tiny little world (which I'm not); hence I live in fear of losing it. How do I let go of the very thing that kept me alive? Well, swimming is a good practice.

I arrived at my second class a little more confident, and I decided to explore a side of me that I don't encounter in physical activities: fearlessness.

I was the first to do every exercise, the in-between practice paid off. I jumped into the water twice at the end. It still feels like a black hole, but I did it.

…

I keep going a couple of times a week besides my class. Now I go past the middle line and cross the pool, which may be the smallest pool you've ever seen, but still. One thing that caught my attention was my physical condition in the water. I get extremely tired. Every time I make it to the other side, I must stop to catch my breath. I work out relatively often, but this feels more like running. However, I don't see anyone else struggling much. Maybe I’m doing something wrong.

I swallow so much water every session I could easily refill my bottle. I try to hide my cough when this happens, with unsuccessful results. I also have to go out of the pool to pee and come back once or twice. Google says it’s normal, it certainly doesn’t feel that way.

During Lap times, no one acknowledges each other, just a nod when someone is about to share the lane. I'm a little self-conscious about my beginner abilities interrupting the flow of experienced swimmers. It's even hard to swim straight, but you gotta do what you gotta do. Everyone else crosses the pool like a fish, and I'm more like a Chihuahua dog. I secretly submerge my head into the water to observe others' techniques, but one thing I know is that no one learns to swim by looking.

A fellow swimmer kindly told me the other day that I was not using my legs. I need to kick. That might be why I get so tired, I'm only using my arms! I appreciated the advice very much and confirmed how unaware I am of what my body does in the water.

…

Someone, at least, always misses the class. It’s difficult to be a functional adult and attend a class on a Wednesday at 6 pm. Fortunately, my schedule is quite flexible, and my commitment is strong. It’s a good group of humble learners, but not all of them are consistent. I apologize in advance for the basic use of pronouns. There’s the surfer - she missed three classes but she’s quite ambitious and will surely catch up. A guy that knew how to swim when he was a kid but then life happened - he’s just missed one class. A girl that struggles with the fear of water - she’s missed a few classes and may not be very motivated. A guy that never talks but does the work. A guy with long hair and different nail colors with good vibes; he was consistent and suddenly stopped coming. Another girl that doesn’t talk much and doesn’t come often. A guy that’s getting there and doesn’t miss classes. And me, whom I couldn’t describe objectively, but I may be the nerd of the group. Before starting the course, I told myself I would be silent and anonymous, but that didn’t happen. The instructor is nice, but it’s clear that all staff is overworked and underpaid. I get a feeling that swimming doesn’t depend only on the instructor; it’s about how much work you’re willing to put into it. It’s about how bad you want it.

Another thing I’ve learned is that once I’m in the pool, my focus is 100% there, mainly because I have to keep myself afloat. Thankfully, for one and a half hours, I have no access to the phone. Working from home has made me very dependent on screens. If I’m not looking at the computer, I check something on the phone. My body and mind are suffering the consequences. Ironically, I’ve found myself looking at YouTube tutorials for swimming.

…

It’s the fourth class, and I’ve noticeably improved even though I joined the group late. It has nothing to do with a hidden talent, of course; I just go there more often. After our practice and a few jumps, the teacher told us there were only two classes left and asked us to stop by to see her individually. She gave each of us a little piece of paper with the obtained skills. It’s like the report card you bring to your parents to prove you’re a good student, although this one is wet,—a swimming school special. According to the paper, I can now submerge, I can do a front glide and back glide for 10 ft (5 ft for preschool), I can exit the water independently, I can jump-push-turn-grab (this is a 4-in-1 skill), I can float on my back for 20 seconds (10 secs preschool), I can roll back to front & front to back, whatever that means; and… (drums), I can tread water for 10 seconds! A longtime swimmer cannot imagine how challenging it is for an adult to learn to tread water, or float, as it’s commonly known. Treading water would keep you alive in a far-fetched situation of danger in the water. So, I could survive for 10 seconds now!

The teacher told me that I was doing very well and could register for the next level. Something happened to me when she gave me this childish, half-wet piece of paper. I felt proud and recognized that I had achieved something.

Drama warning here: I separated from a nearly 8-year relationship a little over two years ago, and have faced many of my worst fears since then. I left stability and comfort. I left my baby cat behind. I moved to an apartment with huge cockroaches, which is fear number one on my mom's and my list. I cried out of fear after killing each of them and became paranoid about them looking at me at all times. I became a freelancer after a life of steady full-time jobs. I lived alone for the first time in my life, and I've felt too alone sometimes. I fell in love again. Isn’t that crazy? That’s scary! Yet I went and faced another fear: swimming. So, yes, I'm familiar with fear and challenges, but I value this achievement tremendously because I chose it (kind of) and put in the work to make it happen. "Kind of" because I'm fulfilling the promise I made.

In case you're wondering, not everyone got the "you passed to the next level" paper. But I won't put anyone on the spot, even anonymously.

I discreetly took a photo of my piece of paper in the locker room and sent it to my boyfriend as soon as I left. I don't want to over-compliment myself too much, but if I were him, I'd admire the ethics here. "Keep her at all costs," a voice inside my head would say. I'm pushing it, I know.

…

By the fifth class, I'm feeling much better. Not fish good, but beginner good. I jumped five times at the end of the class. That's all I'm gonna say.

In the sixth and last class (really the eighth class), only four people came. Three guys and me. It was a practice-what-you-want session, mostly the teacher chatting and telling us about the next level. I never stop moving even when they're talking; pool time is gold. To my surprise, the next level sold out, so none of them could get a spot. I registered two weeks ago when the teacher told us registration was open. So, I'm in. I'm not leaving the YMCA until I swim like a mermaid! Now we need a Latina mermaid. Aquatic representation.

She gave us a Certificate of Achievement. Not the same feeling as the first little paper, but the word Achievement was there.

She also gave me a correction about my arm movement when treading water. And told me again, “The more you relax, the easier it is,” which is completely counterintuitive for a new swimmer.

Today, two days after my last class, when I got into the water, I didn’t tense my body, I didn’t try to hold myself with my arms. I did what she told me and suddenly, there I was, floating almost effortlessly. For the first time in my life, being in the water felt natural. It’s revolutionary. Now I know what people feel inside the water. I let go of control with my mind, and my body got me.

It seems that life still has some surprises up its sleeve. I feel hope, pride, and childlike joy. I can’t wait to see myself swimming for real, freestyle, breaststroke, and all that. And hopefully, keep being an adult learning toddler.

And as much as I’ve resisted saying it, I feel so grateful that my boyfriend pushed me to do this. I was a stubborn goat. Surround yourself with people who challenge you and challenge yourself. You’ll end up winning anyway.

For the record, I still don’t buy the “it’s a life-saving skill” thing, but I get what they say: swimming is fun.