I often find myself reminiscing about my own swimming lessons. My introduction to the water happened in the chilly waves of the Mediterranean coast. At just 9 years old, those waves seemed enormous, and the sandy ocean floor felt impossibly far. I remember the seaweed wrapping around my legs, the salty water stinging my eyes, and that raw feeling in my throat that lingered for days. My stepfather was there, nudging me deeper into the waves but without a hint of warmth or encouragement. Though I was never truly in danger, it took a long time for me to find joy in swimming.
Fast forward twenty years, and I now watch my son as he embarks on his own swimming journey. The smallest in his class, his pale skin glows under the afternoon sun. He sports a bright blue swim cap and matching goggles, with a laminated swim card hanging from a lanyard around his neck. Each week, he proudly declares how happy he is to be part of this learning community. While we wait for his lesson to begin, we engage in a game of I Spy at the poolside: F is for flag, L is for lifejacket.
We’ve been attending these lessons for over a year. Initially, he was frightened and would cry, worrying about sinking or what would happen if I didn’t notice him go under. I could see the worst-case scenarios playing out in his mind. Yet, I consistently reassured him that I wasn’t the only one watching. Gradually, he learned to trust his instructors—kind young men who gently guided him into the warm waters of our local pool. With patience and encouragement, they showed him that swimming could be enjoyable.
Recently, my son graduated to a new group, leaving behind floats and plastic treasure chests. Gone are the days of him crawling along the wall like a monkey; he’s now diving into the more serious aspects of swimming. Even in just a half-hour lesson, I can see him tire. But he is in the safest hands.
When he struggles to kick his legs or flails his arms, the instructors are right there to support him, lifting him gently when needed and correcting his movements with calm precision. It’s magical to witness their balance of support and challenge.
As the lessons begin, I notice other parents pulling out their phones or books, relishing their brief break. But I can’t help but keep my eyes glued to my son, not wanting to miss a single moment. Occasionally, he scans the sidelines for me, and when our eyes meet, he beams with a big wave before returning his focus to the water.
I delight in watching him laugh and interact with his instructors—these lovely, strong young men who instinctively know that kindness is key. Their Australian accents echo across the pool, and I can’t help but think about how different this experience is from my own.
At the end of the lesson, he scurries over, shivering and with a pink mark on his forehead from his swim cap. I’m there, towel in hand, ready to wrap him up, along with a carton of juice for him to enjoy. He excitedly tells me that next week, for the final lesson of the term, they’ll get a special treat: their first jump into the deep end. Even through the cold and exhaustion, his eyes sparkle with excitement.
This is how it should be, and I am truly grateful for this experience.
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In summary, watching my son learn to love the water has been a beautiful journey. From his initial fears to his growing confidence, it’s a privilege to witness his transformation. This experience has not only enriched his life but has also deepened my appreciation for the gentle teaching methods that make learning a joyous adventure.