I like to swim. I enjoy the sensation of weightlessness, cutting through the water with my arms pulling each stroke, my legs beating behind me as I disappear in a swathe of bubbly white foam. When the sun is shining, it sparkles in the blue water creating diamonds of light, filling me with inexplicable joy.
I used to do competitive swimming when I was young. I don’t remember how it started, if my parents asked me and my sister if we wanted to be athletes, or if it was their idea. I imagine it may have been to give them some respite as we went to training three or four nights a week after school. Perhaps one or both of my parents had unfulfilled dreams of being competitive sportspeople and they were pursuing this thwarted ambition their children. Whatever the reason, my younger sister Helen and I joined the throng of adolescents at the Jamboree Heights State School swimming pool each evening for “training” which we may have referred to as “squad” as we were grouped into squadrons according to our pool prowess. My sister was a stronger swimmer than me, and certainly for her age group, so she and I were often in the same squad despite our age difference. Although truthfully, neither of us were particularly athletic people. We would do training for an hour or so with things like 4x 100 metres freestyle or medly to warm up. I remember feeling hot and sweaty and exhausted, even in the water. I thought some of my coaches were sadistic. Once, to inspire us to swim competitively, one coach instructed us to get into pairs, and one had to start swimming a lap and the other had to start soon after and try to catch the first person. The person in my pair was a boy called Simon I had a crush on, and I swam like a torpedo to avoid his hand catching hold of my feet. He was later my first kiss, orchestrated by my friend; swimming buddy and part time model Vicki . At 12, Vicki was a year younger than me; she went to my church and swimming club and had bigger boobs. She was the envy of many girls for her looks, fashionable clothes, winning ways with boys and having her own stereo and a Ken Done doona cover and sheet set.
On Saturday mornings we had Swimming Club which was a swimming meet where we swam in different events and were timed, and the idea was you were competing with others in your race but also against yourself to improve your time. Parents were the volunteer time keepers, and I remember my dad walking along the side of the pool as I swam yelling “Go! Go!” as he clutched a stop watch in his hand. One day during swimming club Vicki told me she had asked Simon if he liked me and he had apparently agreed to kiss me, so we three conspirators snuck to a suitable location in the school ( between a concrete pylon and a bush) and puckered up. As both he and I had braces at the time I was terrified of the urban myth of them locking together so I barely opened my mouth, but I still remember the rush of adrenalin to my head and heat though my body.
Another memorable thing about the pool was that it was next to a sewage treatment plant, and was sometimes rather smelly depending on which way the wind was blowing. There were these brown ducks that swam in the sewage pond and then came and swam in the school pool which the parents agreed was rather unhygienic. Additionally, they deposited soft brown poos which dissolved in the water or bobbed around at the sides of the pool. Eventually, the school constructed a large net which covered the pool and the surrounding grassy area, change rooms and caravan canteen where I bought violet crumbles and sausage rolls after squad sessions. It was quite a surreal effect, almost like an indoor pool, this semi-transparent dome like being under a giant mosquito net.
These are my memories associated with chlorine. As I swim sometimes now, I sense my arms forming the strokes as we were taught in squad for stroke correction, repeated so many times over so many years. I am amazed at what my body remembers. Swimming and the smell of chlorine for me is the memories of my best friend, my first kiss, training with my sister and my dad shouting encouragement from the sidelines. Sometimes when the water pounds in my ears and I am pushing myself to complete another lap, I think I can hear my dad’s voice and people cheering and the sun is shining and I am in Jamboree Heights, I am young and full of potential and promise. The finish line is within my sight, I am striving for the goal and I stretch out my arms, and I swim. .
Elizabeth Shield is a bicycle riding vegan baking frisbee throwing tambourine shaking zine creating peace seeking optimist. She has had some work published in an anthology – Sappho’s dreams and delights: Australian lesbian writing, as well as the Journal of Australian Social Work because she is a queer tree hugging do-gooder as well. Elizabeth has self-published a number of zines including “Not another Zine”, “Aftershock” and “The End”. She aims to have more time for writing and more sex, and start writing about sex.