When I was in college, I worked two summers as a swim instructor at a YMCA near my house. Most of the people I taught those summers were kids, 8, 9, 10 years old, but on occasion I would also offer private lessons for adults. These were rare, and not because most adults know how to swim, but because most adults think it’s too late, or too embarrassing, to learn.
One morning I was sitting on the lifeguard stand when in walked a man who introduced himself to me as Jerry. He had pure white hair, a pot belly, wrinkly skin, and his walk was more like a shuffle. I figured he must have been about seventy years old. “I would like to sign-up for a private swim lesson. Would you be able to teach me?” We talked for a few minutes about what exactly Jerry wanted to learn. Do you know how to swim at all? Can you swim on your back, your side, underwater? Jerry said “yes,” “yes,” and “maybe,” and before leaving we settled on a day and time for him to come back for his first lesson.
A couple days later he returned. “Why don’t we start in the shallow end,” I suggested. Jerry climbed down the ladder, while I sat down on the edge and slipped in.
Once in the water, I asked Jerry the same question I’d asked him before. “Do you know how to swim at all?” “Sure,” he said rather sheepishly, “I can swim.” “Well, why don’t you show me what you can do.” Jerry laid down on his stomach, put his face in the water, and took off like a bullet doing the crawl stroke. “Wow!” I exclaimed. “That’s pretty good. How about your back? Can you swim on your back?” Sure enough, Jerry could swim on his back…and his side…and underwater. “Jerry, you’re a great swimmer. What do you know that I don’t know?” He leaned in close to whisper. “I’m terrified of the deep end.” That’s when I realized that, with every stroke Jerry had shown me in the pool, he had never gone into the deep end. He always kept his feet where he could still touch.
I don’t know what made me think it would be a good idea in that moment to just push Jerry over the edge, but I had him get out of the pool and climb up onto a diving block, while I stood beside him on the deck. As if the deep end wasn’t scary enough for Jerry, now he was standing four feet above it, his legs shaking like a wet leaf in a hurricane.
“Come on, Jerry, you can do this. The hardest part is getting in the water. Jump!”
“But what if I go under and don’t come back up?”
“Hold on a second,” I motioned to him, “I’ve got an idea.” I jumped into the deep end myself. My legs treading like an eggbeater beneath me, I held my arms out to him. “Jump to me, I’ll catch you, I promise.” I meant it, I wasn’t going to let him go under. And yet, Jerry probably weighed about 200 pounds bone dry; I weighed about 120 pounds dripping wet. I held up a hand like a stop sign. “Hold on again.” I got out of the pool and put on a lifejacket, and grabbing two others to tuck under each arm, jumped back in the pool again. “Okay, I’m ready, Jerry. 1, 2, 3, jump.” Jerry just stood there. “Come on Jerry, you can do this, I believe in you. Here we go, 1, 2, 3, jump.” Nothing. He was totally still in the eye of his storm.
Just then, from out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small child—couldn’t have been older than five—walking towards Jerry. They stepped up onto the block with him and took his hand. “Don’t be afraid, Mister.”
“But what if I go under and don’t come back up?”
“But if you don’t go under, you can’t come back up.”
Then, with a 1, 2, 3, the child jumped. Jerry, of course, jumped too, because if he hadn’t there would have been a small child dangling from his hand four feet above the deep end! But that’s not why Jerry jumped. Jerry jumped because, for whatever else going under was going to mean, it meant he’d have a hand to hold on the way back up.
Anne Lamott says, “courage is fear that has said its prayers.” What we fail to remember, however, is that, concerning courage, it’s perfectly okay to beg, steal, and borrow from someone else.
PleaseGrace 