“Diving into Confidence: The Thrills and Challenges of Adult Swimming Lessons”

I can’t tell if I’ve always had a fear of water, but I don’t recall a moment when I wasn’t. I remember as a youngster sitting adjacent to the tub to observe it fill, fearing it might inundate the house in the brief minutes we left its side with the faucet running. I had not experienced any negative incidents (that I could recall); my apprehension appeared to be instinctual.

Like many Australians, I underwent swimming lessons during primary school. However, one of the initial tasks was to submerge your face and head in the water, which I completely refused. The instructor cautioned that if I didn’t, I would be confined to the first lane with the small children engaged in water play. I replied that it was acceptable, and she left me be after that. So, I never acquired swimming skills.

I managed to navigate through life quite well by concealing my lack of ability – I became someone who was “not really a beach person.” And whenever I did visit the beach or pool, I could wade and splash around in the shallow areas – no one realized I seldom put my head beneath the surface.

I did notice, however, that as I walked past the pool on my way to the gym, the odor of chlorine overwhelmed me with a suffocating anxiety. I would briefly feel breathless, until the strong chemical odor dissipated from my nostrils.

Upon becoming a parent, I faced the same intrusive worries that all parents have: what if my baby stops breathing during sleep? What if he chokes on his meal? What if we are strolling beside a river and we both fall in and I am unable to rescue us?

I had completed baby first aid, I had reviewed the safe sleeping regulations, and I decided I ought to truly learn to swim.

The thought of visiting my local pool, in my mid-30s, and inquiring about beginner swimming lessons (“No, I don’t need to refine my stroke; I need to focus on getting my face in the water”) was a somewhat humiliating one. The idea of finding some swimwear that fit me during my postpartum recovery felt even more daunting. Standing on the sidelines of the pool as I awaited my first lesson to start, other women my age were gathered there to observe their children’s lessons. A thought crept in that I was somewhat pitiful, and I worried I might shed tears.

I shared these sentiments with a friend who remarked that learning a new skill such as swimming was no different than an adult taking guitar lessons. Yet it felt more akin to not knowing how to read – something presumed everyone can already manage, and which must undoubtedly be harder to grasp as an adult.

Despite the assumption that all Australian adults can swim, almost a quarter of us claim to have weak or no swimming skills. Thus, I am far from alone, even though I have never heard another adult admit they cannot swim.

My initial lesson consisted of only two participants – myself and a middle-aged Englishman who possessed the simple, almost heart-wrenching wish of swimming in the ocean for the first time. Regardless of how challenging it had been for me to show up, I wagered it had been more so for him.

We commenced with small steps. No submerging of faces at the start, just a bit of kicking on our backs, becoming accustomed to the enveloping sound of our ears submerged in water. At first, I kicked my legs and I made no progress. I remarked to the instructor that I didn’t seem to be moving. She chuckled and said, no not exactly, but you will shortly.

Without being aware of what had shifted, I soon began to glide. Loud yet serene laps back and forth, back and forth, clasping my kickboard, more than once bumping my head on the wall, not comprehending that was what the flags ahead were meant to indicate.

I departed the first lesson exuberant. I had succeeded. I swam. I didn’t drown, and no one laughed at me. Certainly, I had utilized a flotation aid, but I walked out feeling somewhat improved than when I had walked in.

When it was time to finally submerge our faces in the water, the instructor talked to us about blowing bubbles. This was a notion I had never encountered. On the rare occasions I’d dipped myself into water, I’d simply held my breath. In the days that followed, I asked others if they were aware that you were expected to “blow bubbles” underwater. They responded for sure, what else would you do down there?

Progress has been gradual, yet more linear than I anticipated. I spend entire lessons moving back and forth in the heated indoor kiddy pool practicing blowing bubbles, occasionally even dipping my eyes beneath the surface. After each class, I have acquired something new or improved in some minor way.

It has rapidly turned into an obsession. The sensation of achieving something I’ve never accomplished before, of conquering something I never thought I could. I began visiting the pool solo, doing lap after lap practicing whatever I had learned in that week’s session, striving to master the tiny incremental skill of lifting one hand at a time off the kickboard or breathing to one side, then the other.

I’ve spent numerous hours griping a pool noodle, gliding past groups of chatting teenagers in the recreational lane, merely honing the skill of placing my face in the water.

Suddenly, one week when entering the pool, I discovered the scent of chlorine triggered a surge of excitement rather than dread. I had initially come for my baby, but I stayed for myself. For the compulsive sensation of exhilaration I experienced while in the water, at overcoming it. I ceased to notice the discomfort of water against my face, up my nose, and in my ears, and instead began to appreciate the light patterns dancing on the pool tiles – tiles I had never observed before beneath the water. I came to relish that rushing sound of pressure and silence that envelops your ears when submerged.

I’ve observed my son is also apprehensive around water. He tenses up when placed in the tub and clings to me during showers and at the pool. I researched whether phobias can be inherited (they can). If I have transmitted my fear of water, I hope I can also pass on the knowledge of overcoming it. I’m not there yet, but I’m making progress.