I’m on a plane, riding the air currents over Germany, flying home from the Czech Republic. Next to me, Boyfriend is fully asleep. He always sleeps on flights like he’s competing in The Sleeping On Flights Championships. We spent a few days in Karlovy Vary for a very jolly film festival, to see a feature that Boyfriend shot. Karlovy Vary is a traditional spa town, where water flows willingly from the earth in twelve places, each with a distinct combination of minerals. The springs are said to have healing properties and people drink from them, filling up special narrow cups, placing their lips on thin spouts to cool the (often steaming) water before it melds with the body’s chemistry. During the film festival, the streets of Karlovy Vary give way to competing musical acts and throngs of people drawn to the small town for a glimpse at celebrity. During the very first walk on our very first morning, Boyfriend and I agreed that this place needed to be kept safe from Wes Anderson’s eyes, as the tightly stacked hotels are unabashedly picturesque, ornate with swirling plaster and pastel paint. A few days later, Boyfriend googled Grand Budapest Inspiration and it turns out Wes Anderson had already drawn from the springs of Karlovy Vary. At least he used it to make one of my favorite movies.
Yesterday we left the festival town and headed to Prague. Boyfriend spent a semester of college at some serious art school and he’s always talked about taking me to see this brooding city that stole his heart. We arrived with gusto—crossing the main bridge that everyone says you should cross, heading to the Jewish Quarter, eating at the restaurant that came recommended by a Prague native. Despite my initial letsfuckinggoooo attitude, I quickly lost steam after lunch. We’d been staying out late, banking 7 miles a day in Karlovy Vary, which is full of sneaky inclines that make your shins splint and Prague is spread out, not to mention the lunch spot was at the very peak of Prague. It sits at the top of a flight of stairs so daunting that I jogged the last third just to get it over with—note, the meal was worth the spontaneous cardio.
So we made our way back to the hotel, Alchemyst Grand Hotel, the most magical hotel I’ve ever stayed in, with the intention of grabbing a complimentary glass of wine that we knew was only offered from 4:00-4:30. We had our sips and debated if we truly had the energy to take Prague on. I really wanted to see the apartment building Boyfriend stayed in as a college student, to visit his old favorite bar and walk through the neighborhood of his serious film school. I wanted to take a photo of Adult Boyfriend standing next to something that Early 20s Boyfriend stood by, preferably a sign that said FAMU (the serious school’s name) or a shiny little plaque of some kind that filled the frame with context. I wanted to match his stride as he retraced his steps so I could more accurately imagine him as a skinny kid with short hair and wire frame glasses, eating cream puffs alongside the river.
But I was beat, the sun was too in the sky and the hotel had a pool that was tempting my tired legs. We decided to take a dip and refresh the body. Prague would still be there, the sun sets so late anyway. The pool is indoors, down a set of corkscrew stairs, through a maze of hallways plastered with gilded mirrors. We found a square pool set back in an alcove, small but big. A man’s voice led us there, booming american accent talking about the public school system in his hometown. Now they do whatever the parents want, it’s like a customizable service. We stepped toward the pool’s edge and the four parents cleared out, but first the talkative man asked us how things were in Los Angeles, told us about his friend in Yorba Linda and proudly informed us that his son’s hockey team won a tournament in Poland. He was from Pittsburgh. Their team beat Slovenia’s team and took home a Bronze medal.
Then Boyfriend and I were alone in this body of water, the entire thing was five feet deep, no shallow end. The temperature was cold but perfect and I couldn’t look down at my feet without planting my face in the water. Our voices echoed against the curved ceilings, reminding me of the YMCA pool where I first learned to swim. I must have been three, because I had to take off my diaper before getting in the kiddie pool, thick with chlorine. After about 10 minutes of thrashing around with floaties on my arms, an older man saw me without a swimming cap and stopped his lap, grunting that we were in violation of the community rules. We didn’t have said gear, so we left.
I really learned to swim much later, when we moved into an apartment across the street from a pool. We’d sneak into the gated property, smuggling towels in giant canvas totes. That’s where my dad taught me about existing in water: how to hold my breath, the difference between a breast stroke and a freestyle, but most importantly, how to do a handstand. Later, we moved to an apartment with a pool, but it was never heated so it was only good on the hottest days. When we got kicked out of that apartment, we moved next door. Another pool, this time heated but sometimes it grew slime green with algae—the landlord never paid for regular maintenance. When the water was blue and the weather was warm, the whole apartment complex would flock to the pool’s concrete shore. A genuine oasis for a building without air conditioning.
My dad liked to swim even on the cooler days, sometimes I’d wade in after him. He is tall, with a big ribcage, shoulders to match. A pool doesn’t shrink him one bit, even with those board shorts, an adolescent pattern of blue-black flowers my mom got him at Sears forever ago.
What does a grown man do in a pool? He tests his limits.
He’d start at the deep end, shadowed by an overgrown ficus tree and announce that he was going to swim to the other side. But not by freestyle or a lazy backstroke. He’d take a giant gulp of air, filling the lungs, with ample room to expand in his ribs and dive deep to the bottom. 5 feet, 6 feet, 7, 8. The moment he reached the floor, his trajectory would change—I watched his long arms extend forward, sweeping across the rough white paint. He kept his legs straight, swishing his feet up and down like flapping paddles.
He loved this exercise, traveling slow motion under the immense hand of water. I’d track his transparent blobs of air bubbles, drifting up and breaking on the surface as he released buoyancy and embraced the sensation of sinking. Then suddenly, he’d make it over the blue tiled line, passing into the shallow end. Sunlight poured across his back and he’d move a little faster. The blue-black board shorts were liquid, better looking in the water than on dry land. I’d hold my breath, waiting, waiting. Then he’d burst up, drawing air into his belly.
Once he knew he could cross the pool without a breath, the new goal became duration. How long could he stay under, bearing the weight of water in body and mind?
I tried to do it on a couple occasions, spurred on by my dad’s laughing encouragement. I couldn’t even reach the bottom, but I would stay under and make my way to the sunny shallow side. It wasn’t what I’d call Fun. My pace was always too quick, my ear drums pinched, my lungs lacked the capacity to slow down time. But attempting it gave me an understanding, gave me more questions.
Was he doing it to prove to himself that he could keep going? Not just in the pool, of course, but to continue swimming through the stress of everyday circumstance? Working five days a week, sometimes six, double shifts at a restaurant with no benefits, dancing for a boss with a talent for temper tantrums? With the love of his life, the mother of his child, bedridden, possibly for the rest of her life—sleeping mostly, but not even there in her waking hours. It was a lot, it was more, it was so much. How long could he do it and not crack?
I took his solidity for granted. We made jokes about the endless parade of medication, cleaning up the soiled bed, running to market after market for just one thing. Every so often, the grief would surface, overtaking his face and shrinking his body. I could see it sometimes, I could feel it constantly, a throbbing ache just above my heart. I don’t think he wanted me to know his vulnerability, so I tried not to. We shared an unspoken agreement.
And he practiced the sensation of weight. Experienced it full body, metered out the oxygen, slowed his movements. Came up for air every time.
It all came rushing back, but I was still in a square pool, standing on my tiptoes somewhere in Prague. Hearing my own voice echo, I told Boyfriend about my dad’s special practice, his talent. Without declaration, Boyfriend dove under water and swam deep, moving along the pool floor. When he came up, I asked him what it was like—he said it’s just a lot of pressure.
Only then did I think about the pressure of water. My dad never mentioned it, he focused on the techniques of breath and movement. Things he could control. What was his secret?
Maybe he didn’t sense a notable change in his environment, even eight feet underwater. Maybe he found comfort along the quiet pool floor, having found the one place his body was buoyant and the external weight was all too temporary.
xx
James
share this with your swimming teacher or your favorite lifeguard….