Minivans began streaming this week into parking lots that had been empty all winter, as community pools opened for the summer season, even before school was out.
Children could be seen piling out of the vehicles with armloads of towels and the other paraphernalia of swim team. Chlorine is for many children the smell of summer vacation, and amongst the younger set, there was almost palpable excitement and happiness.
Apart, that is, from one little girl, whose steps slowed in apprehension as she approached the sparkling expanse of blue water.
“What’s the matter?” asked the child’s older sister. “Aren’t you excited to go swimming? It’s practically been a year!”
“Do I have to have the lesson?” the child said suddenly, turning to her mother.
“You do, darling,” her mother said encouragingly. “The lessons will help you become a good, strong swimmer just like your brother and sisters.”
“I’m scared.”
“But you had lessons last year, and you loved them!”
“No, I’m scared about — you know,” the child said, mumbling slightly.
“It’ll be fine once you jump in. It won’t feel so cold.”
“No, it’s not that, it’s –” and she whispered something unintelligible.
“The swimming part? Why, you’ll pick it up again in no time! You were swimming beautifully by the end of last summer, remember?”
The child looked worried. “Not the lesson … the teachers.”
“Oh, the teachers are nice!” the girl’s sister put in kindly. “They’re college students, and they’re really friendly.” She pointed to the shallow end of the pool, where two enthusiastic young people were teaching a passel of small children how to use kickboards.
“See?” said the mother. “Nothing to fear. Just jump in the water, and off you go. The nice teachers will help you.”
The small girl bit her lip. “But what if they have –” and again she murmured something the others could not understand.
“Tell me up close,” said the older girl, crouching down and putting her hand to her ear. She waited, smiling tenderly, as her little sister whispered something in her ear in that funny, moist hissing way little children have.
Then she stood up, laughing. “She’s not afraid of the lesson or the water. She’s afraid that the boy teachers will have –” and here she too whispered — “body hair.”
“Someone told me! At school!” the small girl yelped, half-defensive and half-giggling. “They told me boys sometimes have hair on their tummies!”
The trio looked over at the swim teachers, sleek as seals as they bobbed about in the water with their young charges.
“Well, sometimes people do,” the mother conceded. “People have different kinds of bodies. But you don’t need to worry about that. You just concentrate on your swimming. If they have hairy tummies, just don’t look at them. OK?”
The small girl nodded doubtfully and slowly began pulling on her swim goggles.
“Next class, it’s your turn!” called one of the teachers from the pool.
“Off you go,” said the big sister.
The small girl took a deep breath and departed. The mother and sister saw her walk bravely up to the two possibly hairy-torsoed instructors, who stood waist-deep in the water and smiled as she approached.
There was a pause, and then the child turned and shot them a huge smile. Rubbing her tummy, she gave a big thumbs up. Phew! One terror of the deep, at least, had been faced and conquered.
Meghan Cox Gurdon’s column appears on Sunday and Thursday. She can be contacted at [email protected].
