I am not a toe-dipper
I am a cannonball
But today I slip in silently and don’t flinch at the water which is, after all, lukewarm
for the senior citizens aerobicizing in their floral one-piece suits, synchronized and smiling to the gleeful beat of 80’s pop
the skin of their arms like melting bubble gum, immodest in their geriatric state of
nothing to prove
the lone man with a tank top over his trunks, mindful of his own sagging breasts
I snap on my blue rubber cap, spit into my goggles,
and I plunge
skimming the bottom with a mermaid’s undulations
startled bubbles escaping to the surface
then rising to the top to start my strokes
to the beat of Ricky Martin
My arms are a metronome
churning me forward
monotonous in their repetition
efficient as paddles
in an outrigger canoe
Our boat is four hundred pounds of koa wood
carved and sanded and polished with the patience of tradition and aloha
seats bowed and burnished by their innumerable residents
Our paddles are in synchrony, parting the swells and froth of the ocean
quick as a porpoise
riding to victory on a comber of foam
I wash back to shore
I pick up a conch and it tells me a story
and I tell it mine
Whitney Houston is pleading for someone to dance with her
and they do
until the song finishes, and the class is over
I exit the pool with the story of the shell still in my ears
The locker room is loud with chatter.
my wet suit clings to me like a sleek, damp placenta
making my skin pucker with goosebumps
I shiver as I apply the drops of alcohol and glycerin into my ears
The story slowly fades
and slips away
