Strokes

Butterflies technically have four wings. The butterfly stroke is no less technical.

In the water, I have wings. Swimming at the YMCA is its own drug. Literally propelling myself forward with every iota of my upper body strength, legs beating the water like Poseidon is dragging me down. Gasping for breath, adjusting my goggles accordingly.

I started in the slow lane. I hadn't gone swimming since I was a teenager, save the occassional summer dip. To my astonishment, I found myself quick enough to move up the medium lane. Then came the fast lane, with the other capped swimmers nodding my way.

The acknowledgment is the best part. I ask the life guard on duty to hold my locker keys (even better is after you know them by name) before plunging in. The locker room? It's own haven. Women suiting up, stripping down without a thought: this is liberation.

I walk into the pool area and hold my head high, swim cap snug on my scalp. It's incredibly tight, like a suction cup.

I love the head rush.