Learning to swim is one of my earliest memories. I can’t even remember where it was, but I remember going with Mike to an outdoor pool somewhere in Burlington — must have been the early 1970s — to take swimming lessons. “Motor boat, motor boat, moves so slow…”
Tonight Oliver went to his first night of swimming lessons, so another torch has passed to the next generation.
There are two other kids in Oliver’s group, both a little younger but somewhat more “put my face in the water” comfortable, so it all seems to balance out. Tonight’s session contained a lot of “aimless wandering down the pool” activity by Oliver, but then again it was “assess their skills” night, and the mere fact that he was in the water and not clutching on to Catherine or I for dear life was a big achievement.
On first blush Oliver appears to have a “relaxed hep cat” approach to in-water movement; imagine Joe Camel, but in the water.
The biggest shock of the evening came when I realized that my presence was not, in fact, required and that I was to retire to the sidelines to watch the lesson play out. First of many, many hours on the sidelines, I imagine.
We’re back in the water on Thursday. Or at least Oliver is.