5/20/2023 0 Comments Swim by Lynn Sherr![]() ![]() Then the water in the diving pool morphed from robin’s-egg-blue to Shrek green, a disturbing chemical reaction that generated all those dumb jokes about bodily fluids mixing with chlorine. At the Rio Olympics, raw sewage in the bays and off the beaches threatened swimmers and sailors, requiring helicopter runs to head off the debris. The sea of stories began with the liquid itself. This watery cocoon is my safe space, my thinking place, my escape from the world at large to a buoyant room of my own.īut not this summer, when a cascade of swimming-related fiascos turned my personal refuge into a political whirlpool. In the sea I swim alone, gliding past creatures with their own agendas, who can’t be bothered by something that has to surface to breathe. Nothing intrudes: no conversations, no waterproof earphones pumping music into my head, no TV shoutfests labeling something that happened 24 hours ago as “breaking news.” During laps in the pool, my grandchildren know to avoid my lane, as does the family of frogs that took up residence this summer. When I go swimming - every day, for whatever part of an hour best suits my mood and muscles - I slip into another zone, a blue bubble of silence that restores my soul while it expands my horizons. ![]() ![]() There was a time when the issue was whether female swimmers had too much skin exposed, not too little. ![]()
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