Day Three: Echo Lake

My parents got me swimming lessons at the YMCA when I was little. Basically, a teacher would drag you out into the middle of the pool. I did not care for this and spent the majority of my time screaming.

When I was a little older, I taught myself how to swim during Little League picnics. I was no Michael Phelps, and I certainly lacked technique and grace, but I did pretty okay for myself. The Jersey Shore provides a lot of opportunities to swim, so I swam a lot growing up.
However, Chicago does not offer the same opportunities, even if your gym has a dirty pool completely occupied by old men.

I realized how terrible a swimmer I actually am about twenty feet out in Echo Lake.

I had been easing myself in for much longer than everyone else - Mike had jumped right in, and Jen and Larrance were heading straight out to the middle of the lake. Obsessed with avoiding cold, I had tried to adjust to the temperature of the water by submerging six additional inches of myself over time. Finally, after watching tiny fishes for a while, I just went for it and swam.

Swimming in real water with wind and waves is not easy for someone who hasn't swam at all in five years, nevermind someone who taught herself to swim. I struggled about twenty feet out, turned around and looked at the shoreline, and my lungs immediately closed in panic. I struggled, alternately doggy-paddling and doing my graceless breast stroke, thinking I was going to drown twenty feet out while accompanied by three people with ocean survival training. It seemed to take a long time, but I made it back to the rocks, where I pulled myself up next to four middle-aged women sunbathing in one pieces, gasping and shaking, and blurted to Mike that I realized I am not the swimmer I thought I was.

Sunday, it's back to the lake again, to prove that I am stronger than a huge mass of glacial fresh water. This time, however, I'll be armed with a Noodle.