The Quiet of the Deep End

I've been thinking about the bottom of the pool.  

Specifically, the bottom of the deep end of the North Pool at Four Seasons Fitness Club off of Oakland.  

My father taught me to dive by having us jump over his shoulder, so that we would avoid jumping or falling "out" and instead learn how to direct "down."  He sat at the edge of the pool.  Maybe we started with his arm to the side, maybe there were other steps first, but I remember the final stage of jumping over the shoulder.  I remember telling him I couldn't do it more than once.  Eventually, I could dive off of the diving board, too, remembering to jump at least a little bit and practice pulling the body into alignment.  Many, many times I would forget to put my head down, feel the pressure of the impact against the goggles on my face as air was forced out and the suction increased.  

But eventually, the water made a steady sound with the splash, wooshing past my arms and my ears between my arms.  And it was quiet.  

The bottom of the deep end is quiet. 

I like to end my lap swimming sessions by diving into the deep end.  The North Pool is warm, particularly compared to the South, where I had swum my most recent mile, and I am suddenly aware of the relative temperature of my body after the exertion.  Sound is deadened around, particularly after the momentum slows and my body naturally wants to float back up to the surface, a scattering of air bubbles as I exhale underwater carving a trail upward.  A few gentle paddles and I can stay longer, surrounded by contiguous pressure and a muffled world.  

Ten feet deep, with the pressure of both the water and the atmosphere above that, surrounding all sides.  The hum of the pool lights several feet away.  Someone else faintly splashing at the other end.  I feel the pressure most acutely at my ears, pushing again against the possible vibrations, a misalignment of resonance.  

The grate at the bottom of the deep end is the lowest part of the pool.  Touching it with my hands, the pressure is as great as it can be in this moment.  Hovering at the bottom of the pool, sculling in place, if only for the moment.  Looking up, the light is dimmed as well, refracting off of the temporary moving roof and distorting the far images of the ceiling.

When I feel the pressure more loudly in my lungs than I do my ears, I reorient my feet beneath my body and propel back to the surface in one clean push while exhaling my remaining air.  Sound restarts instantaneously once the surface is broken, the echoes of the space intensifying even small sounds.  Spreading the arms wide in one long stroke, I hide back underneath the surface--only a foot or two down--just to allow myself a moment to adjust and reverse my arms to breach again.  I may repeat this a couple more times, kicking up to push my body out of the water in order to cast myself deeper and again, pendulating higher and deeper each time.  

And then some gentle treading at the surface.  The sides and the floor out of reach, but accessible in a few strokes any direction.  With two decisive pulls, I dive down again and swim toward the ladder in two wide strokes, curling my body to rise directly with the ladder and out of the water.  

The normal noise of the day is allowed to resume.