Swimming Lessons: Grand Coulee, age 6

a memoir

Five pools. Five decades. Five stories that shaped my life. I uncover the wisdom that rises when I allow the water to carry me.

A memoir

Childhood water holds the earliest truth. When we float without fear, we learn who we are before the world tells us otherwise.

Grand Coulee, Age Six

I spent my early childhood on the west side of Washington, in Olympia, where summer rarely gathered enough heat to justify an outdoor pool. Warm days felt provisional there, borrowed. But my grandmother lived on the east side of the state, in a small town called Grand Coulee, where summer arrived with certainty. The sun stayed. And every visit meant swimming.

I loved staying with my grandma in the summer for many reasons, but mostly because of the pool and the cousins. My grandmother had nine children, which meant there were always older cousins around. I was the youngest of the older group, old enough to be included but young enough to feel chosen. My brother and sister were still too small to join us, which made the invitation feel even sweeter. I belonged to the moving pack of kids who roamed the town without parents, sunburned and barefoot, a little feral and completely free.

The city pool was a short walk from my grandmother’s house. We passed through a small wooded area where the dirt path dipped and curved, then crossed a narrow wooden bridge. I always slowed there, imagining trolls beneath the planks, waiting for us to pass overhead. I liked the feeling that the walk itself was an entry into another world. By the time the pool came into view, large and bright behind its chain-link fence, I was already halfway gone from ordinary life.

The entrance had a massive turnstile gate that clanked loudly as we pushed through. It felt important, ceremonial. Once inside, everything opened. The pool was enormous to my six-year-old eyes, a wide blue expanse ringed by hot concrete. Chlorine hung in the air, sharp and clean, mingling with the coconut sweetness of Hawaiian Tropic. Even now, that smell can stop me in my tracks. It carries me back instantly to those afternoons stretched long and golden.

We arrived as soon as the pool opened in the morning and stayed until they cleared us out for lap swim. We went home for dinner, then returned for the evening session. Whenever the gates were open, we were there. I do not remember my parents coming with us. In those days, a teenage cousin counted as supervision. No one hovered. No one worried. We moved as a group, fluid and loud, inventing games and dares, taking up space without apology.

Most days were spent in motion. We played mermaids, flipping our hair underwater, racing to see who could hold their breath the longest. Sometimes I pretended I was Miss Piggy in The Great Muppet Caper, performing an elaborate synchronized swimming routine in my head while the real world dissolved into blue blur and soundless light. When we grew tired, we sprawled on towels, skin slick with suntan oil, faces turned toward the sun. I loved the feeling of warmth sinking into my bones, the way my body felt simple and good and entirely mine.

There was a snack stand near the shallow end. My favorite treat was sour dip candy. I loved the way it fizzed on my tongue, sharp and electric, a small jolt of pleasure that made me laugh every time. Everything felt heightened at the pool. Color. Taste. Sound. Even time moved differently.

To jump off the diving board, you had to pass a swim test. The lifeguard stood at the edge of the pool with a clipboard, watching carefully as each child attempted it. The test was simple in theory. Swim across the pool and back without stopping. In practice, it felt enormous. I was small. The pool was wide. I wanted that diving board more than anything.

It took me a while to pass. I remember gripping the edge, taking a breath, pushing off, then stopping halfway, my confidence dissolving as the distance stretched longer than I expected. I tried again another day. And then again. Each attempt left me tired and determined. No one forced me. No one rescued me. I wanted it, so I kept going.

The day I passed, I climbed out of the pool and stood dripping on the concrete while the lifeguard nodded and marked her clipboard. Pride rose quickly, bright and clean. I had done it. I had earned something.

The ladder to the high dive was tall and narrow. Each rung rang softly beneath my feet as I climbed. At the top, I felt everything at once. Fear tightened my chest. Excitement buzzed through my limbs. Confidence held steady underneath it all. I looked down at the water, deep and blue and waiting. The world felt very quiet.

I did not hesitate long. I stepped forward and jumped.

For a moment, I was suspended, weightless, heart racing. Then the water closed around me, cool and complete. I sank, then kicked back to the surface, gasping and laughing, triumphant. When I climbed out, my cousins cheered. I felt taller than I had moments before.

I did not know then that this ease with my body would not always stay with me. I did not know how many years it would take to find my way back to it. All I knew was what the water had already taught me. I could trust myself. I could meet fear without shrinking. I could leap and be held.

That knowledge lived in me long before I learned to doubt it.

Years later, I would return to the water carrying something new, no longer seeking joy, but proof. I will share more next week.

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In Case You Missed It: Swimming Lessons: Warm Up

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With love,

Dawn