I was six years old and just got thrown into the swimming pool. It was my first swimming lesson in a new fancy school my mother later realised was way out of her financial league. But for the year I was there, we had weekly classes.

The first day, we were sorted out to separate corners of the pool according to skill. I was in the absolute beginner’s corner (could you be anywhere else at six?) and to my horror, my swimming instructor had a temper and fiery sense of humour as raging as his chest hair. He lived my personal meaning of ‘uproarious’, because if we weren’t guppy enough to his liking, the warning bells would go off; a large roar of laughter. Before I could even register it underwater, I was out of it, and in mid-air.

It was his punishment for us; to fly,
and fly right into the center of the pool where it was deepest, and see if we could swim back.

So I went soaring into the water, and after the first few fumbles and minor chokings, I grew to like it. I would misbehave on purpose and hope that I’d hear his roar launching me off into the sky like a rocket and fly, fly right into the center, then wait until a highly amused big black forest with limbs attached hooks me around the waist and pulls me back. He stopped ‘punishing’ me when I accidentally let out a giggle and “whee” one time.

I fell in love with swimming, long after I could swim back myself, and long after I could toss my own self into water. Even when you’re underwater you’re flying. Your feet don’t touch the ground, your back is to the sky and your front is staring down at peace; it is in a big body of water, aqua and flowing and cool. You are the plane and you are its pilot.