I’ve been swimming twice a week for the past month. My newfound access to a pool all started about three years ago, when Mr. P joined the Boston Sports Club in Framingham. This BSC was actually a bares-bones hotel gym, attached to a Sheraton, but it sported a full-sized swimming pool (the only reason Mr. P joined). The sparse offerings meant that Mr. P only paid $39/month, and he had access to the numerous other BSCs during off-peak hours. Soon after we moved to Arlington, the BSC in Framingham closed, transferring Mr. P’s membership to the Natick club, and more importantly, upgrading him to a Passport Membership, meaning he had all-access privileges to all but the most swank BSCs for $39/month (going rate: $99/month). Then, Mr. P decided to join the gym at the large university where he works, and so he transferred his BSC membership to me for a nominal fee. THEN, last month, I received a letter that the BSC in Natick (still my official “home” club despite never having stepped foot in it) was closing, so my membership was being upgraded to a Passport Premium, meaning that for $39/month, I have unlimited access to ALL of the BSCs, including the two premium clubs, one of which is very convenient to the commute to my new job, which I happened to start the day after the Premium Passport went into effect (going rate: $129/month, I hear).

So long story short: I have access to one of the nicest indoor pools in metro west Boston for $39/month. I have not swum regularly since around the age of 13, but my girlhood was filled with swim teams, swim meets, and of course swim practice. I have fond memories of swimming lap after lap after lap under the duress of coach Kay, who dreamed up insane drills like only taking one breath every 25 yards, or doing 30 flip-turns, or swimming kick-only laps without a kickboard.  Practice would always end with a mock meet, and the losers would have to re-string the lane lines onto the large metal storage wheel. These memories are fond not because I enjoyed them, but because they are so pronounced in my cerebrum that I associate childhood with swimming. I remember coming out of the locker room with my sister after swim practice and seeing my father waiting for us, sitting on the stairs near the exit with a book. I remember spending hours at swim meets in order to swim in three, maybe four events. We’d play cards, read books, and share snacks. I’ll never forget one particularly long competition, when my mother produced a bag of Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies and I thought I was the luckiest kid in the world.

Despite starting at the age of 6, I was never a strong swimmer. My arms are long and my shoulders are broad, but I never mastered the technique. Backstroke was and is my specialty; the technique just came naturally to me, and so whatever accolades I received in swimming was as the backstroker on my club’s second-best medley relay team. Even now, I can whip across the pool with backstroke, my propulsive arms in perfect circles, my shoulders bobbing assuredly, my legs kicking indomitably. (The kick is the major weakness in my freestyle, as I just can’t maintain the rhythm, and my legs get twisted when I turn to take a breath).

But despite never being a champion, those miles and miles of laps 20 years ago became hard-coded in my muscles, and last month I resumed my swimming regime with surprising ease. (No doubt some credit goes to yoga, which has done wonders for my back and shoulder strength). I feel a certain satisfaction returning to the major past time of my youth, as if I had reached the other side of the pool, took a long rest, and now I’m swimming back to the start.