Into the Clear Blue - by Susan McCreery
ISLAND | ONLINE ONLY
She’s a beautiful swimmer, powerful and neat, so when she turns at the deep end I hop in her lane. The water’s a sparkle of blue under the early sun. We keep a respectful distance either side of the black line. Our pace is the same, our turns synchronised. After a kay I stop for a sip from my water bottle and soon she pulls up too.
‘Done,’ she says, and shoots me a grin. ‘All yours, honey.’
I watch as she ducks under the lane rope and climbs the steps. She has a back like a washboard and legs as long as forever.
With the lane to myself I return to smooth, to blissed out, thinking of nothing. After three and a half laps a new swimmer passes on his first. His legs are low in the water, creating a drag, so I know I’ll overtake him soon. Sure enough, within a couple of laps I’ve narrowed the gap.
Here’s my theory: you can tell a lot about a man and his opinion of women by his lap-lane etiquette. Men who shift to one side at the wall, nod off you go, are allies. Fast women swimmers are no threat to these men. Then there are those who refuse to give way, no matter how obvious it is they’re being out-swum, who, according to my theory, expect you to do everything except take out the bins, who get the shits when your salary outstrips theirs, and who rage whenever you’re curled up in sorrow about your grandmother, who is interstate and dying.
If Gavin were a swimmer, he’d never
shift aside
with humility and grace,
let you take the lead.
His feet are in front of me.
If Gavin were a swimmer.
There’s barely room to pass.
I calculate the distance and effort required to make it to the wall before him. It’s doable. I kick harder, pull harder, until I’m alongside. He kicks harder, pulls harder, forces me into the lane rope – slut, bitch, whore.
My rhythm is broken, my heart rate up. I tumble-turn into the clear blue, trying to settle, trying to regain calm, return to bliss, to me. And for two laps I do.
If Gavin were a swimmer.
If Gavin.
Take Gavin in bed
for instance.
I see bubbles.
No etiquette in bed.
His feet are in front of me.
Battle after battle.
We’re almost at the wall.
Not a hope, mate.
He’s not going to stop. He will not give way.
How many times has he backed me into a wall?
I do the unthinkable.
I tap him on the shoulder.
‘Let me go first.’
It’s not a request.
He turns his dripping head to face me. I can’t see his eyes.
His mouth is a bloodless knife.
I don’t wait for a response, just tumble-turn, go. But now I’m kicking too hard, too fast. I am off-balance, off-kilter. The angle’s all wrong and I wince under water as my hand whacks the rope. Only four laps to go but it might as well be forty. My goggles are leaking. All I can picture is his eyeless face. It could be a sham. He could catch me. I want to throw up.
Calm down, calm down.
In the water spitting means nothing.
My mouth is a cave, filling with water.
My mouth is a cave, filling with blood.
Keep your head up.
I am lactic. My legs drag.
I sink to my knees.
He can have it, the lane. He can keep it.
I’m going to black out.
Wait.
He’s forgotten how to breathe.
I know. I remember.
They can pull through water, these arms. They can move me forward. Once more I am gaining. Two laps and I’ve narrowed the gap. My legs are forever springs. My back is a washboard. I tumble, turn from the wall.
His feet are in front of me. I tap them.
Let me pass.
Let me go.
I am going. ▼
Image by Olia Lialina
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