Sunday Morning Zen

I won't lie.  It's been a strange few months and it doesn't look like there will be much let up in this for next few either.  The best word I can use to describe it is 'limbo' - which, having just consulted Wikipedia on its origins, is the word used in Catholic Theology to describe 'the edge of Hell'.  I don't know if I would go quite that far, but sometimes I do feel a bit like I'm living in Purgatory.  

Out of curiosity, I have also just Google'd this word and, it seems, contrary to my own Philistine (I'm not going to look that one up, just go with it) beliefs, Purgatory is, at least, not a permanent state.  In fact, if I am in Purgatory, then I am undergoing some sort of process of 'purification' before being moved on, which, in some ways, doesn't sound so bad I guess.  And this is one reason why, just to truly mix up my theologies, I have taken up the very Zen practise of swimming on a Sunday morning.

The idea of swimming as a 'Zen' pastime, was actually put to me by the sister of a friend of mine.  To be honest,  I have never seen myself as a spiritual person, and have therefore never put much credence in things like meditation, but I bought into the idea on the grounds that she does yoga and also lived in Japan once, so ought to know something about it.   I was also aware that I should be doing more to maintain my heavily-overloaded cardiovascular system.  Mostly, however, she convinced me of the benefits by telling me that, like myself, she is only capable of swimming a front crawl.

I say I have taken up the practise.  In reality, I do it for about three weeks at a time, forget about it for a few more weeks and then, when I really feel the need, do it again.  Yes, this isn't doing much to improve my general fitness.  It does, however, give my fevered brain a bit of a rest.  Just the process of focussing on your breathing, your strokes, the sensation of being held by the water is, well maybe not spiritual, but certainly a good way to start your day.  Another aspect is the people-watching. This varies depending on the time of day that you go, but there is a certain social microcosm that operates in my local pool which I find quietly fascinating.

My customary time for going is around 11am, which is primarily given over to kids, their divorced dads (no hot ones - I've checked) and rabid swimming teachers.  I have got quite used to the sound of one as she screams 'kick, Archie, kick' at the ginger-haired kid floundering next to me.  Today though, having woken up early after a particularly sedentary and not very interesting Saturday night, I ended up on the early morning shift.  The early-morning shift is basically, as I discovered, wall-to-wall pensioners.  Apart from one mildly disgruntled teenager, I was the youngest person in there by quite a long way.  I wish I could say the fittest, but I'll just have to content myself with youngest for now.  Anyway, I quickly learnt that this shift operates on a very strict social-code.  For a start, you do not, under any circumstances, use a locker that is in regular use by someone else.  Or at least, you do not, under any circumstances, use one particular lady's regular locker.   This is locker number 55, for anyone planning to be at Whitstable pool at 7.30am on a Sunday morning.  As I went to bundle my bags in there I heard a plaintive cry, "Oh, you're using number 55!"

Me: "Haha...sorry...is it lucky?"
Changing Room Lady: "I come here four times a week...it's good because I come straight from the changing room to the locker.  I always use this changing room."
Me: "That's ok...I'll use number 59...there."
Changing Room Lady: "It's good because I always know where my locker is.  I come here four times a week."

After this exchange, I head towards the pool area where I am met by the sight of all three sections of the pool separated out into lanes.  This brings me out in a bit of a cold sweat as I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, a lane swimmer.  My first instinct is to rush over to the 'Lane Etiquette' signs in front and pretend to study them.   I am immediately approached by the same lady from the changing rooms.

Changing Room Lady: "Don't worry.  We all swim together.  I come four times a week.  You just need to choose a lane."
Me: "Ok thank you.  I will."
Changing Room Lady: "And we usually have a shower before we get in..."
Me: "Oh ok, I will"
Changing Room Lady: "You don't have to"
Me: "No...I will"

Post shower, I glance over all three lanes in a melting pot of indecision.  The first lane, which I believe to be the slow one that I should be taking, is stuffed with pensioners, including, by now, the lady from the changing rooms.  If they are not standing in the way chatting, they are doing a leisurely breastroke up the middle of the lane.  It looks fine, but I know if I get in there, I will be ploughing straight through them with my one choice of swimming stroke.  This seems rude, somehow.  The middle lane, although much quieter, is populated by serious swimmers, still all doing a leisurely breastroke nonetheless.  Again, I will be ploughing into the back of them with my one choice of swimming stroke and probably finding myself ejected on the grounds of bad pool etiquette.  Finally I plump for what is traditionally known as the 'fast' lane, on the grounds that there are only two people in it - one fairly relaxed looking woman and the disgruntled teenager holding a swimming float.

Decision made, I jump in and, feeling the pressure of finding myself in the 'fast' lane, decide to swim two lengths without stopping.  Half-way through the second length, my heart is already pounding and I'm exhausted, so embarrassingly I have to stop and have a quick rest.  I kind of hope the relatively attractive, young lifeguard isn't watching, although as the second-youngest person there, I stick out like a sore thumb and I know he probably is.  Having got that initial burst of activity out of the way, however, I relax and get into something approaching a rhythm.   I have already set my target for the morning - 10 lengths.  Ok, I realise that doesn't sound like much but, when you are restricted to the front crawl, it feels a little bit like doing a race and at least it gets the endorphins going.  I had worked myself up to 12 but, like I say, it's been a while.

On something like length number four, the endorphins start to kick in, and with them the more 'Zen-like' aspect of the morning.  I think, from my own narrow understanding of it, that the act of meditation is supposed to allow your mind to wander.  If this is true, then mine naturally wanders into some fairly dark places, as it casts back to a documentary I saw earlier in the week about the Marchioness disaster of 1989, where 51 people drowned in the Thames.  I imagine what it must have been like trying to swim in the dirty, freezing, tidal water and decide that I would have been dead within minutes.  I also think about the survivors' stories and reflect on one lady in particular, who seems to have survived the disaster with all her snobbery and class values still intact.  And then I wonder if that is just a product of her class; her British stiff upper lip that refuses to be changed in the face of tragedy and personal trauma.  I think about my own personal situation and reflect on the situations of others who impact on it.  Before I realise it, I have completed 10 lengths.

I am just in the process of deciding whether to go for another two lengths, when I am distracted by a voice.  It is the changing room lady again, still standing over in the far side of the pool.  I hear her shout, "You are in the wrong lane".  At first I think she is talking to the gentleman standing next to her but then it becomes clear she is talking to me.  I try to explain as audibly as possible, "I can only do the crawl.  I need to be here or I will bump into people."  "We all swim together", she says, "we come here every week".  She turns to the man next to her, "You go in the middle lane sometimes, don't you?"  I smile.  I don't know what else to say.

I take another few seconds, see the other woman in my lane take her leave, and decide I have got all I can out of the experience for the day.  I was trying to stretch it out to 30 minutes.  I am on about 25.  It's close enough.  I leave the changing room lady in the pool, still enjoying her swim I hope, despite my choice of lane.  She clearly wanted me to join her, and I might have, had I not actually wanted to swim.  I suppose, at the end of the day, we all have our own reasons for doing things.  Walking back through the normally busy Harbour Street at around 8am, I realise I can hear bird song.  Not bad going for the edge of Hell.