Island Girl

For as long as I can remember, summer meant finding a body of water to jump into to cool off. Simply stated, if it's hot and I see water, I want to jump in.

Maybe this desire comes from having been born on an island. Surrounded by pristine and inviting blue everywhere always made me want to be a part of the liquid beauty.

In Cuba, we spent our summers at Varadero Beach. The most perfectly perfect perfection of the beach experience anywhere. When we arrived in Miami in 1961, we used to go to Crandon Park ("El Charquito") where there were zero waves and so sometimes the water temperature would get into the 90's. Crazy, right?

Well, when I was 9, we moved to Southern California. There were many culture-shock moments moving from East to West coast, and the personality type of the Pacific Ocean offered one of the most shocking.

The Pacific Ocean, I quickly learned, was not the same as the Caribbean. Or for that matter, the Atlantic. For one thing, there was nothing "pacific" about it. There were waves. And when I say "waves," I mean WAVES.

There was an entire language dedicated to the description of the ocean activity. We learned to recognize when a "set" was coming in. We learned (after getting tumbled a few times) how to move toward the breaking waves instead of away from them to keep from getting pounded into the sand by the shore break. "Shore break" is a thing. Who knew?

There's an entire "surf science" based on high and low tides and there are optimal times to surf. Beach breaks are better at a medium tide - mostly early morning or early evening. Reef breaks will "close out" if the tide is too high. If you get caught in a rip tide that starts dragging you out to sea, you swim sideways, not toward shore.  See what I mean? So much to know. What a contrast between all of this and the yay-we're-at-the-beach-let's-go-swimming simplicity of the Caribbean and the Atlantic.

Also, in Cuba as well as in South Florida, ocean water is pretty much the same as bath water. You can walk right in with no shock to your system. The coolest the water gets there (please correct me if I'm wrong) is maybe the mid-80's. Still a very comfortable temp.

Ah, but in Southern California, the days of sea-water-the-same-as-bath-water were long gone. The water temperature here on the West Coast is routinely in the low to mid 60's. The cool water helps keep the coastal temperature refreshing, but surfing (which my people do routinely) or swimming usually requires a wetsuit.

There are lots of beach days where I don't do more than dip a toe in and complain about the cold water. And I miss being in the water. It's the only downside to life on this coast. (Well, that and our ridiculously liberal governor who is driving our economy into the ground and business out of the Golden State, but that's not important right now.)

However, these past couple of weeks there has been a heat wave here in So Cal. And mercifully the water temperature has risen along with the thermometer.

That's right. 74 degrees! Air and water temperature! And this coincided perfectly with our beach vacation. Thank you, God!

We spent our entire week splashing around, surfing, boogieing, and just cooling off in the ocean. Strangers were remarking to each other about how warm the water was. 74 degrees, people! Southern Californians headed to the shore in droves. We high fived each other over the awesome air/water conditions.

"The water is so incredibly warm!" We exclaimed to anyone who would listen.

I know. It's not Caribbean warm, but this island girl did not care. When the air and water are about the same (74!) temperature, magic happens. It was like this for the entire week we were vacationing at the beach. And there was no getting me out of the water.

Even when it was time to get out of the water.

Just Keep Swimming.

I wonder sometimes how I survived my childhood. Seriously.

When I was very young, my family spent the summers at Varadero Beach. The entire summer. (I know. So cool, right?) You see, it was way too hot in the city (Havana) to just sit around. So we went to the beach house, Villa Obdulia, along with all the cousins.

In retrospect, I don't remember anyone teaching me to swim.

They dragged me (!) into the water, and occasionally an uncle would let me cling to his back as he walked out to the sand bar. (I could never get there on my own being less than four feet tall, but that's not important right now.)

But I did have a "salva vida." A life saver. In the form of... an inflatable duck. An INFLATABLE DUCK, people! (I wish I was making this up.)

 

After we left Cuba, we continued our habit of spending summers at the beach - sort of. We would drive out to Crandon Park on Key Biscayne in Miami. "El Charquito." Or The Puddle. No waves. No worries.

My sisters and I spent all of our time in the water.

It had not occurred to anyone at this point to teach us to swim. (I know. Shut up.)

Eventually, we moved to California. We lived in Santa Monica, to be exact. The water at the beach here in So Cal was cold and crazy. And there were waves. Not just the rolling-in-isn't-that-a-soothing-sound kind of waves. The kind that tumbled you around like a washing machine. 

There was an art to dealing with these monsters. You had to get really far out and close to them before they broke. Which meant going out sometimes past where we could touch. 

And we got very good at praying "Ay Dios mio! Don't let me die!"

So I'll concede that we did get rudimentary How-To-Survive-in-Rough-Surf Lessons. But just good old-fashioned swimming lessons? Not so much.

It wasn't until a neighbor and friend (who used to take the Cuban girls to the beach) noticed that we were more floundering than floating and so convinced my mom that she really needed to sign us up at the local YMCA for swimming lessons. 

I was ten.

I'd like to point out that I had never, ever, been afraid of the water. No matter how much tumbling and near-death experiences we had, we kept going right back in. 

Imagine my delight with the new-found ability to propel myself through the water by the synchronized movement of my arms and legs!

Front stroke! Back stroke! Dog paddling! Look at me go!

They even taught us how to dive. I became a diving fool. Two feet was the same as twelve feet. I was fearless.

What a wonderful thing I'd discovered!

And so, those swim lessons at the Y carried me through the rest of my life. Up until now.

We belong to our local YMCA. And from the time my kids were babies I have made sure they've had lessons and all four are not only water-safe, but wonderful swimmers.

We go to the Y regularly to swim laps and cool off on the days we're not at the beach.

In my mind, I was gracefully swishing across the Olympic pool, staying in the middle of the lane lines and rhythmically crossing the length of the pool. Back and forth in a beautifully choreographed ballet.

The truth: I was sputtering and splashing and kept hitting the lane lines, and gulping for breath and swallowing water.

So, I made a cataclysmic decision: I would take adult swim lessons at the Y. (Don't judge me.)

I found myself in class with seven other people. Many of whom were working through some life-long fears of the water. Which meant that I, with my 5th grade swim lessons, got to have an instructor all to myself. 

She helped me finesse my style. Breath steadier, pull harder, kick better. And now I can swim laps like the rest of the cool kids. I even got myself goggles and a cap.

(Umm....no, I am not posting any photos of myself with the cap & goggle combo. Let's just say I look very much like an alien. That is all. Shut up.)

I still love the water. And it's only taken me forty-five years to perfect my stroke. ;-)

When did you learn how to swim? (Or did you?) Tell me.

"Just keep swimming." ~ Dory, from Finding Nemo