Last swim of the summer
It is early November. The gulf of Mexico quetly infuses the Texas hill country with unseasonal warmth and humidity. I am working outside repairing a wall. The work is strenuous and the afternoon sun beats down on me while the humidity leaves sweat trickling down my body.
The sun is low. Blue sky is turning to turquise and orange. As I finish putting my tools away I stop and sniff the air. Earlier in the year this was the time for a swim. Now, into November, it seems unlikely that the water will be warm enough. But I grab my swimsuit and towel and head off to the river anyway.
My favorite swimming hole is by a secluded low-water crossing ten miles west of town. As I drive down the slope to the concrete slab I see an old pickup truck parked at the side of the road and its owner sits fishing on a large rock in the middle of the river. I drive across the slab and hear the water singing to me through the open window of the van. I hear it calling my name. I see the swirls beckoning me.
I park and change into my river shorts and walk, barefoot, back down the road to the slab. I stop for a while and wade in the water. It feels cold but not achey, I walk on across the slab and chat with the fisherman. He has not caught any fish but the glow of the evening sky is enough.
I walk on and scramble upstream over boulders. I know there is a deep place at the narrows just upstream. I cannot get into the water a bit at a time. It has to be everything, instantly, sink or swim, freeze or float.
I scramble further and find my place on the rock beside the narrows. I pull off my tee-shirt and my glasses, lay them on the rock then look down into the deep water. Should I pause, should I think about this, should I prepare myself? I know the answer almost before I ask the question and without hesitation launch myself into the deep water.
The transition from air to water is a steep one. A temperature gradient that temporarily takes my breath away. Down. Down. Down. I touch the bottom, linger for a moment, float gently towards the surface. When my head emerges from the water everything somehow seems cleaner. The sky is a glorious mixture of blue and turquoise and orange. The waxing moon is overhead peering out between thin, high, sunset orange clouds. I begin to swim - a slow, stroke as my body makes its adjustments. Across the river ahead of me is another outcrop of rock. By the time I get there my body feels comfortable in the water as I perch – only my head out of the water - to enjoy the sunset.
Soon it is time for me to swim some more before my body chills. I head downstream to another rock outcrop. Slow strokes with the slowly darkening sky overhead. Stand for a while in deep water up to my chin. Breath deeply, rest, then swim back upstream to the rocks I just left. Seems further against the gentle current. Another short rest then back to my starting point, my glasses, my tee shirt.
I scramble back over the rocks to the slab where the fisherman casts his line one more time then turns away to seek another fishing spot. As he walks away I climb up onto the rock and plunge into the water. Such a delicious feeling that I am compelled to repeat it - twice, three times. Emerging after my third dive I feel the evening air cool on my body and the beginnings of chill. Time to dry off, put on some clothes, head home.
Favorite tunes on the stereo. A glass of wine. Leftover barbeque brisket with stir fry vegetables. I sit at the computer eating and writing. The plate is almost empty as I write this and I lick my fingers to stop the keyboard getting too sticky. So much in life to quietly enjoy. I am thankful for this day on top of all the others that brought me slowly and inexorably to this place in time and space and me. Such a wonderful journey which seems to be only just beginning…
Steve Roberts. November 8th, 2005. All rights reserved.