Rachel Wise: My comfort zone is a warm, dry place

Rachel Wise

I found myself in an uncomfortable situation last week.

I had to wear swimming togs.

I don't wear togs. There is no point, because I cannot swim. And they clash horribly with my gumboots.

But my physiotherapist had other ideas.

"We will get you into the pool for some rehabilitation," she said.

"Aaah," I replied smugly. "I will have to give that a miss, because I can't swim."

"You won't be swimming," my physiotherapist replied. "You will be walking and doing exercises."

Foiled.

My lack in the swimming department is not through lack of trying.

When I was at primary school, learning to swim was compulsory.

Every summer's day each class would get a turn in the school pool.

We'd trail into the chilly concrete block changing rooms (they always smelled of chlorine and wees and there was always a lost pair of undies on the floor) and get into our togs, then into the cold and murky pool where we caught veruccas and were – in theory – taught to swim.

Each year we beginners would hold the bar and kick, then practice turning our head to breathe, then the teacher would tell us to let go of the bar and float.

And I would sink.

Every year.

I have very vivid memories of the learner's class because I was in it for about six years.

I never got to put turning my head to breathe into practice, because when you are on the bottom of the pool, turning your head doesn't help a lot.

Eventually I moved on to an intermediate school which, to my delight, had no pool.

But the swimming lessons continued.

My favourite uncle had no concept of someone not knowing how to swim.

He maintained swimming came naturally, so long as you had adequate exposure to water.

His idea of adequate exposure was "lots" and he achieved that by repeatedly throwing me in the deep end of any water available.

His theory was that eventually my swimming instinct would kick in.

My brothers managed to survive his technique, but I would spend school holidays in Taupo being flung into hot pools in full view of signs bearing warnings against putting your head under, and wondering what would get me first, drowning or meningitis.

As it happens I survived to adulthood and gained the ability to make my own decisions about water and swimming.

Water, I decided, was good in bathtubs, showers and a decent cup of tea.

Swimming was for fish.

But physio is for fixing busted folk, so when my therapist said jump, I did.

Well no, I purchased and donned togs, then shuffled hesitantly into a pool that felt to me like snowmelt coming off a passing glacier.

All the signs said indoor heated pool, but I swear I saw a polar bear bob past clinging to an iceberg.

My therapist insisted it was actually warm and said I would feel much better if I just dunked myself under and got it over with.

I don't do dunking, or under, but she's studied this stuff so I took a chance on it and she might be onto something.

Then, as proficient swimmers powered past me doing laps and that "turning your head to breathe" thing, I tried to look confident, capable and cool.

Hard to do, when what you're actually doing is walking backwards up and down in a public swimming pool. Backwards, then forwards, then sideways.

Down the pool I'd go, heading towards the deep end then, as the water started to lap at my chin, I'd have to turn around and retrace my backwards, forwards and sideways steps to the shallow end.

The proficient swimmers were doing leisurely turns and throwing in the odd lap of backstroke as I went into my second phase: exercises.

Holding on to the side of the pool so as not to get swept to my doom I did rises on to my tippy toes. Then I did squats ... then side leg raises.

None of this looks elegant unless you are a ballerina, at the barre, in a leotard and you are calling them releves, plies and grands battement.

I was standing up to my armpits in water, wearing togs and a blue rubber swimming cap.

Every time I squatted down, water went up my nose. Not all that much like a ballerina.

As the proficient swimmers threw in a few laps of breaststroke - the show-offs - I finished my routine, wallowed out of the pool and ... gravity got me.

I suddenly realised that while I was floundering about in the water the weight had been taken off my non-compliant legs and I'd actually been feeling quite agile.

On land, however, someone had swapped my legs for pool noodles and my torso now weighed a tonne.

Aside from that, my togs were sagging at the bottom and my feet had gone all wrinkly.

In hindsight, the pool isn't that bad ... it's getting out again that's the challenge.