My
brain is undergoing a wash; it's very similar to an automatic car
wash – vigorous – with the exception that its rhythm is
unpredictable, as are the results.
The
scrubbed areas have set so many thoughts swimming. All these bodies
thrashing in the water. Their heads sheathed in rubber caps, their
eyes hidden behind dark goggles. These are serious swimmers, not
pleasure bathers floating or paddling. The stroke is not from the
breast but overarm, and some clearly need more practice. With breath,
the turning of their head and the slapping of the water; the latter
should be avoided at all costs. The aim is not to splash but to
develop a smooth technique much like a fish i.e. mostly undetectable.
(I
never knew that this is what goes on in my brain. I wonder if others
have the same...? Apologies for the interruption but the idea is
fascinating, is it not? Perhaps others have a jungle with men in
camouflage, or women with supermarket trolleys cruising aisles,
picking an item up, studying it, then putting it back. And yes, I
know I'm being gender specific and stereotyping, but one's
imagination can only stretch so far and it's hard to visualise what
someone else might find when it doesn't play to your own interests.
Note: I have no interest in swimming. However, I sense your
impatience, so let us end this discussion and return to the aquatic
scene).
It's a
respectable scene (there's no nudists here), and adult. No children
are present and there's no childlike vibes i.e. no water slides or
inflatables. This is serious stuff. A role the participants are to
some degree experienced in as none (now I'm closer) have the
appearance of complete novices. They cut through the soup of water or
dive from the rocky ledges that encircle it with a skilfulness that
only those engaged in continuous study can possess. (What I earlier
termed as 'thrashing' I later learned is par for the course here, but
then I've never been a spectator of water sports. Perhaps after
assimilating this I'll develop a higher regard for it in the outside
world...)
As I
was saying before I discontinued my description of this inner
setting, the swimmers come across as proficient: some fluid, others
workmanlike, but as my terrain is in human nature my attention was
immediately drawn to the fact that women outnumber men, (I don't know
why I'm surprised when I identify as female), and considerably so.
The disparity is instantly noticeable since the men seem little more
than appendages, part of the pod yet somehow not, particularly as the
women are so striking in their one-piece suits with not a tendril of
hair showing beneath their bathing caps; their figures as shiny and
sleek as multi-coloured seals, whereas the men it has to be said are
more walrus-like. (Their washing technique is probably of more
interest to you but I thought their physiques were worth a mention).
With
their physical structures fleshed for your benefit rather than mine
(I mean I'm here aren't I, an inside bystander to this spectacle
whereas you're going about some other business I imagine whilst also
reading this, as am I writing), I will now direct my gaze to their
athleticism. And I have to say it's quite stupendous what they
achieve in such a small space (they're packed in like sardines as
they say) since there's very little margin for errors, and which
means spray is inevitable. The few men being the chief offenders as
they do tend to rather flop into the churning waters, and yet once
their bodies are immersed their gracefulness is equal to that of the
women's.
The
purpose of swimming is I assume to agitate my cerebral fluids, and
it does have that desired effect for there are so many thoughts
popping in my brain, (which I think also accounts for the number of
swimmers though this would also infer that thoughts have an X or Y
chromosome), which from my inside position looks like a fish-feeding
frenzy.
Remarkable,
how the outer self is fed.
Picture Credit: Spray, Harold Williamson