Swimming Class

by Ali Motamedi

“Marbles” by Ruby Wang

Mashhad’s Homa Hotel* had this deep three-meter pool with a round small basin beside it. At night, they would turn on the fountains, putting chairs and tables around them so people could go there and have tea, coffee, or ice-cream. But during the day, it was closed for this. Hundreds of naked kids of all ages would hang around in the yard. Newcomers played in the small basin, and more skilled ones trained in the middle of the big pool. Mr. Javad was the tutor. He had a bald head, hairy hands and legs, and wore a plastic whistle around his neck. He’d walking around, calm and careless, telling us who may be drowning in a corner:

     “Don’t struggle like this kid. Just breathe. Just breathe correctly.” 

     We couldn’t understand what he meant, really. I didn’t know what not struggling had to do with breathing correctly. I was ten. Mr. Javad was a friend of my dad. He entrusted him to teach me how to swim. I didn’t like swimming. I didn’t like the water at all. But in those days, you had to have a plan for your summer - taking a class, course, or something. In the end, I accepted it. The class lasted one month. It consisted of a few days of breathing exercises followed by a few weeks of learning different kinds of swimming. And at the end of the course, there were supposed to be a show of our skills, attended by our parents. The show was supposed to be a chest-crawl swim of three meters in the big pool. Mr. Javad and his assistant, Mr. Mohsen, announced this loudly for everyone on the very first day. You had to start from the right ladder and would swim till you touched the left ladder. Everyone in the class would applaud and you would be rewarded with a small, signed plate as a memorial. 

     The class began with us lying down and practicing on the grass. 

     Mr. Javad used to say, “Take a deep breath in . . . turn your head. Aha! Now exhale. Repeat . . .”

     He would yell, “Breathe! Breathe is the most important thing.”

     After a few days, it was time for us to get in the water. Kids were in line around the pool, fooling around, making jokes, and finding friends. But I wasn’t paying attention. I was in no hurry to get in line. I would even sometimes give up my place to someone else. I felt like my chest could not hold another breath. My hands and feet were tense like dry wood. I wanted to get out of the line and disappear without anyone noticing. 

     “Relax your body . . . Relax.”

     I would grab the rusty pipe of the pool fountain. Or the rope hanging on the edge of the small basin. Or even the plastic slippers or the tube that was left beside the water. I hated water, hated its acrid taste in my throat and nose. Hated the bursting coughs. Hated swimming class. 

     “Head in the water. Keep your head in the water . . .”

     I would keep my head in the water. Absolute darkness. There was silence and sometimes a fading and yet continuous sound repeating in my ears. Why couldn’t anybody see me? Why wasn’t anybody listening to me asking for help? I had my head up and looked out under my half-open, turgid eyelids. I could see people around me, laughing, pouring water on each other. I wanted to act like them. But I couldn’t. What was the difference between us? Between me and the others -many of whom were younger than me - who were twisting like fish in the water. And others still who had even enrolled in the class later than I had. 

     Every day, as I was leaving, I would take a look at the deep three-meter pool. At its depth. At how big it was. The golden rays of the sun shone through to the bottom of the pool, and you could see the wavelike movements on its surface. Was it opening up to hug me or scaring me away? I couldn’t understand. I didn’t know how deep it was. How much is three meters, anyway? Even the thought of it would make me sick. I knew that Mr. Javad and Mr. Mohsen would always be there for us. No one ever drowned in the hotel swimming classes. Then why couldn’t I breathe? 

     During a recent visit to Mashhad, I headed back to the Homa Hotel for the first time in a while. Twenty-five years had passed. Twenty-five summers. When I passed the main gate and yard of the hotel, I went straight to the back. Everything had changed—the lobby, furniture, paintings on the walls, lighting, and all the staff. The hotel had been assigned to a governmental administration years ago. It was not the same anymore. I didn’t know if they still had those summer swimming classes or not. I passed the vacant café and entered the yard. It was quiet. The small basin and the big pool were still there. There were some tables and chairs around them, and a few fountains were pouring water inside them. I got closer. I looked. Small basin. Big pool. Small . . . big. Why there were no difference between them anymore? I stood by the basin. The sound of kids screaming and shouting echoed in my head. The sound of their hands smashing into the water. Its depth was not even up to my knees. Its diameter was the length of two arms. I could see little me in the water, sticking to a corner and struggling. Struggling to keep his head up and then lost in the water again. And gripping anything close. I got closer. I sat by the pool and stretched my hand for him. The water was calm. I got calm. I stood up and went by the big pool. It wasn’t big. Maybe ten steps long. I stood by its edge, beside the three-meter depth corner. It was quiet. Was it opening up to hug me or scaring me away? The time had changed the lengths and dimensions, but the water was the same. Its quietness and slow vibrations. Its call. The sound twisted in my ears again. This time, I tried to listen. 

.

.

.

     Breathe.

.

     Breathe.

.

.

.

     The last day of class, Mr. Javad told everyone “Godspeed” and asked us to be on time next week accompanied by our parents. But I had another thought that day. I didn’t tell anything to anyone about the event at the end of the course. Not to Dad, not to Mom. I didn’t show up for that. I didn’t cross the length of the pool in front of the other kids yelling and all the parents watching. I didn’t struggle. I hadn’t drowned. I had not learned to breathe until today.

* Located in northeast Iran, Mashhad is my hometown.

Originally from Iran, Ali Motamedi is an essayist and an avid reader of contemporary non-fiction literature in the US. He is also a photographer and university professor, living and working in New York City.

Ruby Wang is a multimedia artist currently pursuing degrees in English and Visual Arts at Duke University. Their pieces attempt to evoke a meditative and peaceful internal experience, intended to juxtapose the deeply tumultuous aspects of the world’s political and social circumstances. Introspection in her pieces drive a motivation to change, that refiguring the world can be achieved through imagination and action. You can see more of their work on Instagram @rubywart