I cannot swim yet I know I will never drown.
And that is not because I choose to stay away from the water.
During childhood one of my favorite escapes from an often painful and turbulent household was the annual week I got to spend away at church camp. There were admittedly aspects of this experience that I did not relish. Anyone who knows me as an adult would not have to stretch to imagine I am not the camping type. That was already established early in life. This camp did not entail tents or cooking over an open fire. The facilities were, for the time, simple yet not rustic. The grounds were beautiful, and the property had a good-sized lake so for me it was several acres of heaven.
And I was away from home.
Everyday we campers were kept to a specific schedule with mandatory activities. Those included morning prayer circle and chapel, Bible classes, and evening vespers followed by yet another chapel service. This was, after all, church camp.
Three meals were shared in a large dining hall. Between lunch and dinner there were (mandatory) periods of athletics on the field and then swimming in the lake. I was as inept at sports then as I am now. I endured the time of field sports in order to get to my time in the water. There was only one caveat to the swimming experience.
I couldn’t swim.
I have never learned to swim.
I also have never held this as a problem. Well, almost never.
On the dock that jutted out into Round Lake there two diving boards. There was a low board. And there was a high board. As a child the high board appeared equal to the height of the Empire State Building. While the sight of it filled me with fear it also captivated my curiosity. I was determined that I would begin by mastering the low board as a precursor to conquering the high board.
Did I mention I cannot swim?
It never occurred to me that the fact I could not swim was a problem in terms of my diving aspirations. I was too fixated on a vision of me jumping high into the air like a soaring orca to worry about landing in a medium I had no idea how to navigate. I basically figured that I would deal with that post-splash. And I knew I had a secret talent that applied would make me a shoe in for the diving experience.
The camp personnel had a different idea.
In order to be permitted to use the diving boards each camper had to pass a non-negotiable swimming test. The test consisted of swimming from the main dock to a floating dock several yards away.You were then required to swim back to the main dock. As I pondered this temporary obstacle to my Mark Spitz moment I did so looking into the chiseled jaw and steely eyes of the lead lifeguard.He seemed to have no flexibility regarding his authority over the lake and the activities that occured in it. You had to know how to swim in order to be allowed to dive.
I knew this was not going to be easy.
I also knew that this was only a six-day experience and so I was going to either rapidly learn to swim in record time or hatch a plan to get past this Godzilla in speedos really quickly. The latter seemed the more viable choice.
While I knew for sure that I could not swim a lick I also knew that I was an expert floater. This was my secert super power. I have no recall of ever being taught this skill. It simply was something I could do from the first time I entered a pool. And so, it made perfect sense to my still optimistic childlike mind that this was a suitable substitution to the required skill of swimming in order to dive.
On Monday afternoon of church camp, I was in the group that had field athletics first. This torment was made durable by the mental planning I entertained as to how I would orchestrate my way around Mr. Lifeguard. I mentally rehearsed various approaches. As I missed catching the last ball from center field the whistle blew, and I knew my chance was at hand.
My stomach churned. My mind raced. My palms sweated. Though I was at a church camp with no less than six hours of Bible everyday my faith was shallow as I longed to dive into the deep.
This is where I should confidently report to you, my readers, that I mustered all the swagger available to an eight-year-old Olympic protégé bound for a gold in floating and dove into the portals of Round Lake history.
And reporting it would not make it true.
I caved.
Tuesday.
I approached, caught Godzilla’s notice, and then shrank away into the shallow end. I was literally and figuritively all wet.
During Wednesday’s touch football debacle, I knew this was to be my day. I changed into my mildew scented trunks and determinably approached my by then wise to me nemesis.
“I am ready to take the swimming test.”
One eyebrow raised. He smirked. I strode to the end of the dock and Godzilla loudly proclaimed “get in.”
Pointing to the floating dock I meekly asked “Does it matter how I get from here to there?” I then stuttered. “And back?”
His stare was piercing. Unwavering. I thought I had lost him and any hopes of the boards.
And then I saw a faint flicker of humor in his eyes. Almost imperceptible yet also undeniable.
I had him.
“Go ahead and give it a try.”
And so I floated my way to one of the sweetest victories of my life.
I did not attempt the high board that year. I belly-flopped off the low board unashamed and undeterred. I floated back to the ladder and climbed out of Round Lake and into a life-long realization:
There are many things that I will never be able to accomplish in this lifetime. Many hurtles I cannot leap over. Many mountains I will never climb. I am not a being of great physical strength or prowess. I am not a physical overcomer. I will never jump off a high, low, or any diving board ever again.
Yet I can float as well as anyone I know. I can and do go deep. I move with the currents of life. I naturally allow life to buoy me up. I have my own way of accomplishing, and my own standards of success. And when the odds are against me, I will find a way to both go deep and rise above. And I can charm my way past any Godzilla, even ones wearing church-inappropriate speedos.
So, in the lake of life, it is true that I cannot swim. And yet I know I will never drown. Because I was born with a natural ability to float. Situations can pull me under, and I pop right back up. I can’t catch a ball, but I can step out of the way of one. I am always teachable, usually flexible. I may fear the high board, but it doesn’t stop me from climbing and fearfully leaping.
I know that when I leap, I will plunge deep. I also know that I will rise to the surface. And I will float easily until I leap again.
A lot of time and experience have happened since my days at Round Lake. Yet I carry the lessons with me.
And I know if I can float I will never, ever drown. And I can always choose to float.
