Wet awareness.


@postaday 291; #postaday2011.

“In vino veritas, in aqua ichthys”, i.e., “In wine there is truth, in water there are fish.”

Last night, while the mini moon rose over Koko Crater and the sun set beyond the hill that shelters Kuliouou, I slipped soundlessly into the dark wet of the swimming pool. My wild hair was bound in an orange and pink swim cap that is a sunset on my head. My ears were plugged with silicone. I wore a purple Nike tri top and a navy Speedo bottom, my red Zoomer fins, faded with a white film of time, my Speedo goggles.

I submerged to test the goggles’ seal, and pushed off the wall. I was a knife cutting the wetness, I welcomed the muffled swish of my strokes, I challenged myself to swim with as few bubbles as possible, just a few, like little fish that eat parasites off whale sharks. I took a breath every three strokes. As my hand swept past my hip, I turned my face to that side, inhaled, and pulled my arm up as I turned my head back into the pool. One, two, three, b r e a t h e… one, two, three, b r e a t h e…I followed my watery shadow along the bottom of the pool, under the mini moon spotlight, until I’d get to the deep end and tumble into my turn, planting my feet solidly against the wall, pushing off with all my might so that I might stay under as long as possible.

For it is there that I am gone from everything and everyone and even the water doesn’t betray my presence until I break the surface and resume my stroke. It is nearly nothingness, a watery meditation, which is probably why I like it so much. But I cannot turn my brain off when I swim. I am thinking. My brain has as many thoughts as my arms have strokes.

Although I sort a lot in my brain, in my heart, and in my soul while I swim, it’s hardly the best place for personal eureka moments. There is no waterproof notebook, no handy pencil, no secretary on the side waiting to jot down my thoughts that pop like carbonation above my bubbly flute. None of that. I just have to wait and see what whispy threads I can tug back into my frontal lobe to share with you. I cannot regret those that get away. They’ll be mine someday. They’ll be mine to share. Released while I’m submerged in a cool pool, or teased out when my lips kiss a bubble of vino, tapped out on a keyboard.