I learned to swim in a tiny, poured concrete pool in the mobile home park where I lived. I suspect "Ed Smith," who owned the lot where mobile homes were headed onto postage stamps, built the pool by hand. I suspect that swimming the length of it was really no big deal: however, five year old me envisioned myself as nearly an Olympic swimmer when I first finished the distance.
My mom did not swim, did not like water, did not like to be around the pool; however, my dad, whose swimming roots were in a tiny turtle-filled pond on a farm, had other ideas about the potential of swimming for his young daughters. So, after he got home from work, we went swimming. We jumped in off the rough concrete sides again We laughed as the cool water licked our faces. We had daddy -daughter time and pool-time almost every night in those days before we had TV, in those days before we could even read to ourselves on summer nights.
Yesterday, however, I inched my way into a new and unfamiliar swimming venue. Yes, there was a wee bit of "I'll do it but then you have to get in too happening." Yes, that's me swimming in an "invigorating" cave. Yes, it was cold and dark in that place where the sun doesn't shine.
Yes, it was an experience I will treasure for a lifetime. Cold, clear and captivating water envelopes your body as you descend the stairs. Yet, after you adjust, the cave becomes your own God-made-stalactite-filled swimming hole!
I suspect my dad and the one who made that swimming hole were smiling as we paddled around
Ps Thanks to the stranger who offered to take a picture as there was no way you could get out and then face re-entry!
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