I did something brave last weekend. After having had a sumptuous Saturday lunch, I dared to step out in the cool 46 degrees, for enrolling myself in summer swimming lessons.
Standing at the sports office, I already felt like an achiever while filling out the form. Staring occasionally into the emerald blue water, I thought to myself, “If Michael Phelps could do it, so can I.” It’s a different thing he is an Olympic medallist, and the closest I’ve been to water is the bucket in my washroom. Wait, do beach trips count?
My daydreaming was interrupted by a mother walking hurriedly into the enquiry office. She clearly had no time for exchanging pleasantries, and went on in a matter-of-fact tone: “If skating classes end at 5.30, and your pool opens at 6, what would I do in the half-hour window?”
“Ma’am, the child’s body needs to calm down after you take her out of the skating ring, and throw her into the pool,” the pool manager said.
“Ummm, I don’t think so. She’ll do it. She must learn how to do it.”
And I turn around to see my second inspiration after Michael Phelps. I had to lower my eye level considerably to come face-to-face with well, a four-year-old clutching at her mom’s bag, continually pestering her to return home.
Cut two, I see the child at the pool the next day. Her mother holding the skating kit in one hand, and dragging the child to the pool with another. I could see tears streaming down the cheeks of the reluctant child as she cried, “Mom, I fear water! I will die. I don’t want to go in! Mom, no…!”
Three…two...one…splash! The child lands into the hands of a coach. Her tears disappeared into the emerald blue water of the pool.
Driving back home, I wondered if a hobby is indeed a hobby, when a person is not inclined towards it naturally. Was the little girl merely ticking off the checklist her creators had crafted for her, perhaps even before she was born?
She did something brave last weekend, not me.
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