I
must go outside. No, not into the daylight, twilight, or
evening; not into the woods, the city or even to the bluffs
of Malibu. I must go outside; to the straight world.
Fraught with fear management,
perfecting technique, and controlling my lust for one very
handsome, pink lipped and complicated coach, I find myself
consumed by the world of a gay swim team. Outside offers
perspective, and I put finger to keyboard and instant
message one wise red-headed South African who loves
"Baywatch."
As every gay person who has
come out of the closet knows, there is a life before and a
life after. Often, in the after, one is submerged into all
things gay; bars, choirs, politics, sports, and more. Such
an immersion often creates the sense of belonging,
validation, and greater happiness, but if one does not come
up for air and take a deep breath, the life before drowns
and its value lost.
Knowing I had become addicted
to the swimming induced endorphins and knowing I had become
intoxicated by chlorine saturated swimsuits and the sexual
innuendos that splash from lane to lane, I knew my focus on
absolving my fear of competitive sport had wandered. It will
be the life before, a voice from the other side of the
world, a friend named Riley or in this case a screen name
similar to “The Hoff”, who will teach me that your focus can
change.
“Howzit?” I wrote.
“Hey. My American friend. I’m
well, you?”
“I’m alright. Swimming has
got me crazy.”
“Shame man. Why?”
“I suck at it. There’s gay
stuff too,” I write.
“What’s gay stuff?” Riley
asks.
“Drama with a guy.”
“That’s just stuff. No
different than my girl problems.”
“He has a boyfriend and wants
me to be part of their relationship.”
“Hehe. That’s funny,” he
writes.
“Why?”
“Because its stupid. What are
you possibly going to get out of it?”
“It just makes everything
difficult,” I reply, “I still need to get over my fear of
coaches yelling at me and then this guy is so persistent
with me.”
“Are you in therapy or in a
social club?” Riley asks.
“Mmm, what’s that mean?”
“Some people stand in the
darkness
Afraid to step into the light
Some people need to help
somebody
When the edge of surrender’s
in sight.
-theme song to "Baywatch" as
sung by David Hasselhoff”
“Mmm …OK?”
“You should be having fun. If
you’re always afraid while swimming and if you’re allowing
someone else to make it more difficult than it has to be,
then are you really doing the right thing by continuing to
swim? Besides, what do you have to prove? You traveled to
and explored Southern Africa on your own – that’s pretty
fearless. Anyway, Just have fun.”
Just have fun. This phrase
echoes between my ears for the rest of our conversation and
by the time I log off, I know I must change my focus on
swimming. Four months, I think, I had swam without crumbling
to criticisms of my swim technique. Four months, I think, I
had swam without being called a name or judged or
persecuted. Four months, I think, I had success; I know how
to properly swim and I know how to challenge my fear of
competitive sport. There is no need, I think, to be afraid
when the experience of social swim has shown me otherwise.
The antithesis to fear, in this case, is fun.
The following evening at swim
practice I find my hands firmly gripped to the edge of the
pool and my feet planted flat against the submerged wall.
The broken water rises above my shoulder and slaps my neck
as the swimmers in the cocktail lane to my left and the
swimmers in the intermediate lane to my right, pass by. I
remain firm in my position, and I do not think of my fear of
judgmental coaches or my shortcomings as a swimmer, rather I
think of David Hasselhoff and the wise words of Riley.
At this moment, still
attached to the wall, I imagine myself to be like Mitch
Buchanon, hairy chest and all, in the opening credits of
"Baywatch" when he dives off the yellow speedboat with the
red buoy. I push off the wall with my legs, raise my arms up
and then quickly lock them into a streamline position as I
slice through the water in my own improvised backward dive.
This is fun, I think.
I hold my breath, and still
streamlined, I kick my way toward the bottom of the pool.
Bubbles brush against my body. From my shoulder to my hips
and then through my toes the bubbles ascend to the surface
in a trail of silver shimmer. I rotate onto my stomach, look
down, and then butterfly kick. One, two, three kicks, and
then I pull my arms tight against my side and swivel like a
rolling log. This is fun, I think.
As the pool’s bottom comes
close, I summersault and then touch the floor with my feet
and in a quick moment, in less time than a blink, Ryan, that
handsome and complicated coach, swims into view, grazes my
stomach with his hand and before I can blink again, he is
far into the distant azure. I swim to the surface for a
breadth of air. It might take a bit more time to refocus on
him, I think.
Keith Davis lives
in Los Angeles.
Aug. 31,
2006
