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In a society obsessed with sport-related gadgets, swimming is a wet form of
socialism. Maybe that’s why I like it so much. In the water, the rich and the
not-so-rich are just the same, wet. You don’t have to have special shoes or the latest
$500-super-titanium-graphite-aluminum-air gizmo to be able to splash around. There are no Armani suits or alligator
shoes to separate the haves from the have-nots, nothing to show whether a person
drives a Mercedes-Benz or a Yugo. Swimming is the athletic antidote to consumption. If
you want to swim, you have to get rid of things, not add them. Other sports
require so much gear that the gear itself becomes the focus of the sport. Whether the
sport is bicycling or golf, gear is essential. And for some participants, only the
newest and latest gizmo will suffice. A friend of mine who works as an outfitter has
a name for these consumers: “gear queers.” And some sports are more prone
to these gear hounds than others. Another friend of mine is an accomplished bike racer
and always has the newest and slickest bikes. He doesn’t ride them that much. But
he seems to like the idea of having them around, just in case.
Me, I like bicycling. But I don’t like getting ready to go bicycling. Even
for a short ride across town, I have to check the tires, carry a lock, and make
sure my shoes and clothes don’t get caught in the spokes or the chainwheel. Once
I’m on my way, it’s fine. But I still have to worry about my bike. Is it going to be
safe? Will someone steal it?
And there’s golf, the ultimate gear sport. To be competitive you need a
dozen or so clubs that you only use a couple times per game, a bag to carry all
your clubs, and a pair of shoes that are useless for any other activity. In 1995,
according to the National Sporting Goods Association, American golfers spent $1.4 billion
on golf doodads — that’s more than the gross national product of Chad, Burundi, and
a golf cart full of other African countries.
Even basketball has become gear-obsessed. In another triumph of marketing
madness, shoes, like the Air Jordans and the $180 Air Penny, have almost become a part
of the basketball dress code.
That’s not to say swimming is immune from the gear heads. As a regular
swimmer at Barton Springs, I see all the gear: wet suits, half wet suits, regular
flippers, force fins, half fins, super no-fog wrap-around goggles, dive masks,
snorkels, insulated swim caps, web-fingered swim gloves, ear plugs, kick boards, leg floats, even
waterproof tape players.
Call me a purist, but I don’t want any of that stuff. I prefer just a suit
and a pair of goggles. And truth be known, I’d rather go without the suit.
I will admit to one concession to the gear heads. I have a spiffy pair of
goggles. The lens is made of glass, which has much better resolution than plastic. But
sometimes, I leave my goggles on the shore, head out into the creek, lake, or pool and
just paddle around. No gear, no toys, no distractions, just me floating in space,
on my own. Nearly naked.
That’s what appeals about swimming. The game is the swimmer. There are no
other conveyances to depend on, no tires that can go flat or balls that get lost in
the street. It doesn’t require gasoline or sails. The only mechanism that matters
is your body. And even that doesn’t have to be very good. Swimming doesn’t
require any special athletic talent. The overweight, underweight, old, young, feeble, or
strong can all participate.
Another great thing about swimming is that it doesn’t require any partners
to be fun. Sure, it’s fun to splash around the pool or the creek with a group of
friends. But those friends are not a prerequisite to swimming. For me, swimming is
best done alone. It’s a time for quiet concentration and reflection. It’s a time for
focusing on the task at hand: swimming a certain number of laps, or swimming across
the lake. There is no time to drink, or talk, or snack on the latest cheese
doodles.
Swimming changes people. Being in water requires humility because as any
sailor knows, the water is unforgiving. Therefore, swimming requires concentration.
Without it, the swimmer risks death by drowning. What other sport offers such a stark
choice? There are no lifeguards on duty at the basketball court.
Swimming requires us to face our fears. Watching my four-year-old daughter
as she dogpaddled her way across the neighborhood swimming pool for the first
time reminded me of the elemental fear that confronts every swimmer. “I was just a
little bit afraid,” she confessed later. And while those fears are submerged as
we become more experienced in the water, the fear of the water and the respect
for the water are never far away.
Plainly put, swimming just isn’t like other sports. Swimming requires
commitment. It requires — pardon the pun — total immersion. And it transforms us.
Swimmers aren’t content when looking at a beautiful lake, creek, or ocean. They want
to get into it, to experience just how cold it is, or how warm it is, to see the
animals and plants that grow in it.
Perhaps the late Jacques Cousteau explained the love of water and swimming
best. “From birth man carries the weight of gravity on his shoulders…. But
in water,” he said, “He is free. Buoyed by water, he can fly in any direction —
up, down, sideways — by merely flipping his hand. Under water, man becomes an
archangel.”
I have experienced a little of what Cousteau was talking about. Earlier
this year, I stopped at Balmorhea, the huge spring fed pool in West Texas. I swam to the
bottom of the pool, where the water from San Solomon Springs begins its journey to
the sea. The springs bubble up from the sandy bottom of the pool, causing little
fountains of sand particles to dance and cascade in a never-ending swirl of activity. I
couldn’t get enough of seeing them. Holding my breath, I repeatedly dove down to the
bottom of the pool, and under 16 or so feet of water watched the sand bubble up and
down.
I could only stay at the bottom for a few seconds before the need for air
sent me rushing back to the surface, gasping for breath. But in those moments,
there was joy, a joy that couldn’t have been made any better by having more stuff, more
money, or more anything. It was a joy that came out of simplicity. And that, to me,
is the best kind.
This article appears in July 11 • 1997 and July 11 • 1997 (Cover).