The Swimming Lesson

Come on, he had said, I'll teach you how to swim; and so here they are, standing in the evening light beside the pond behind the Anderson's barn. They knew each other somewhat from school, but today was the first time he'd seen her all summer. They'd run into each other outside the library and she had noticed he'd checked out a book about Mark Spitz, the Olympic swimmer.

They'd walked past the bank and the town hall, talking and laughing, and finally she'd admitted she didn't know how to swim. On the spur of the moment, he had said he would teach her and he knew the perfect place.

He'd swum here maybe a dozen times this summer; his family's property bordered the Andersons' and it was easy to reach, plus the pond was screened by a birch grove that gave a semblance of privacy.

The day had been hot and they could feel the warmth of the water as they stood in the tall grass near the edge of the pond. Let's go, he said, with a confident smile. He bent to untie his shoes.

Shirts, shorts, shoes piled in the grass beside them and they stood side by side in the tall grass, he in his underwear, she in hers and her undershirt. The grass was nearly waist high; it tickled his legs as it wafted across his skin. The icy pit in his stomach that had been slowly growing since he'd first suggested a swim lesson was now thawing in the warmth of her nearness, of her skin.

Are you nervous, he asked. The evening light turned her blonde hair to molten, fiery gold; he could see the thin white strip of skin where the strap of her undershirt prevented her from tanning, but the rest of her olive brown from the summer sun.

Yes, she nodded, smiling. Is it deep?

Not very, he said, and held out his hand. She took it gently, their fingers automatically intertwining, and he led her to the water's edge. Ankle deep, the pond was warm like bathwater.

Not so bad, right?

She laughed. It's just our ankles, she said.

The tall grass had hidden their lower halves and now they are bared to each other; he tried very hard not to look down her legs to her feet and back up, and did not succeed. Finally, he stepped forward, pulling her gently behind him.

The warm water slid up their legs step by step; the pond floor was slimy and hot and mud squished between their toes, and once she slipped and tottered into him and he wrapped his arms around her waist to keep her from falling in. She had laughed and said, Don't let go, and he had said to himself, How stupid would I be.

They reached the middle of the pond, the water up to their chests; she was close to his height, and her undershirt was wet to the underside of her small breasts. I think it's time, he said. He still held her hand, and now slid his arm around her waist. Lay back, he said, looking into her face as she leaned face up toward the sky.

It's easier to start on your back, he said, moving his other arm beneath her knees so she was level on the water. Arch yourself, stretch your arms out wide. She lay on her back, legs together, arms outstretched, back arced, face aglow. He watched her stomach rise and fall rapidly, the wet fabric clinging to her skin, and so not like fabric at all.

He let her float for awhile, then stood her back up; he swam back and forth, showing her how to kick, how to reach, how to plunge. As the evening unfurled into night, they twisted and turned through the warm water, her golden hair now wetted dark against the white of her shirt. He held his arms under her as she kicked and reached; he remembered his own mother teaching him to swim just like this when he was a child.

Arms and legs slithered around and between each other like eels; she was a natural swimmer, he assured her, she was doing great. She laughed, often, happily.

Finally, she said she wanted to get out, and he led her again by the hand through the warm mud, and they rose up, the water slipping down their bodies, the warm night air on their now-bared stomachs, thighs, shins. They stood again in the tall grass beside their piled clothes, as good as naked in their clinging white underwear.

How was that? he asked. Wonderful, she answered. He remembered her clinging to him, he remembered her weightless weight floating in his arms.

Yes, he agreed. You were a mermaid. She laughed again; a cricket began to chirp.