Broken Reflection

The whistle blows. I am bent over and touching my toes. Then I twist my torso, facing my left side, then my right side. These are just the last phases of my short warm-up routine. The whistle blows once again and this time accompanied by a deep, authoritarian voice: “Tristan, get inside the pool already! We don’t have all day!” I simply finish my routine by stretching my body one last time. Then I dive.

The water was cold. My nerves instantly felt it and I felt a chill going up my spine, yet I didn’t have time to let my body adjust to the water. I didn’t have control over my body when it entered the water. All it wanted to do was swim. Swim so many laps until all my muscles ached and my legs would give in. I could swim all of the swimming styles. Just name it and I’ll show you: front crawl, butterfly, breaststroke, backstroke, sidestroke…

Like I said, just name it and I’ll be happy to demonstrate it for you.

The first three laps, I do without further hesitation. Front crawl, then breaststroke, then front crawl again. If you aren’t familiar with these swimming styles all I can say is that front crawl is probably the fastest style and breaststroke the slowest. Both involve arm and leg movements, which aren’t exactly similar. The easiest way to learn more about these styles is actually learning them yourself. I could continue doing twenty, thirty, maybe even fifty laps, but I hear the whistle as soon as I reach the end of my third lap. I lift my head over the water surface, not taking off my goggles, because I would eventually plunge into the water again.

My coach, Mr. Rodriguez, was a very strict man. He wasn’t old fashioned though, probably because he was relatively young. He was looking down at me, a whistle hanging down from his neck, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He had dark brown hair, small, blue eyes, just like the sky when there weren’t any clouds, and pale skin. And his stare was intense.

“Tristan, you know better than to start swimming without my indication. Now, let’s begin with four laps in front crawl, four in breaststroke, four in butterfly and four in backstroke.” I nodded. I didn’t need him to give me directions, I would’ve done the same routine, but, anyway, I turned around and heard the whistle before kicking my feet against the wall behind me and swimming as fast as I could to the other side.

I was with Mr. Rodriguez alone in that pool. Not many people went there actually. I myself couldn’t come very often. I could only come twice a week if I was lucky. I didn’t have time. I had things to do and curfews to respect. I would only spend an hour each time I went there, which wasn’t enough for me. Swimming was the only way I could feel free.

People may ask me “How the hell do you feel free when freedom doesn’t exactly exist?” And I simply shrug. There is no answer to that, because the freedom I feel when I swim only exists inside the icy body of water. It only exists when I’m swimming at a fairly paced speed and with controlled, precise movements. It only exists when I don’t think about reality and let my mind clear up. It only exists for one or two hours each week.

Then it ceases to exist.

The whistle is blown again when I’m finished with all sixteen laps. After a short break where I took some much needed breaths, the whistle blew again for me to repeat the routine. It isn’t much considering my passion for swimming. I could spend hours doing it. And if you wanted to know if I got tired, I only have one reply for you: Who gets tired of freedom? Nobody takes it for granted if you live in an oppressive environment where the slightest offensive comment can arouse suspicions from the Government's Secret (personally, not so secret) Police. You could be dragged away against your will to the never ending war.

Well all of us at one point in our lives will eventually have to go to the army and fight in the war, or run away, exile in some neutral country (not that many options, unfortunately) for God knows how long, being away from your friends, your family, your hometown, your country… A physical war versus an emotional war. In the end they both become emotional, so the exile is a much appealing option. So which would you pick, running away like a coward and not exactly caring about it, or fighting in a war you don't believe in?

It’s a choice we all make, whether we like it or not.

The whistle sounds again. Mr. Rodriguez may not be a psychic, but he is very empathetic and knows when someone is down. Today was no exception. “Tristan, let’s have a break.” I lifted myself up onto the pool edge and sat with my legs still inside the water. Mr. Rodriguez bent over, placing one knee on the ground and resting his arm on the other one. “Are you okay?”

When I didn’t nod, it wasn’t because I was feeling down, but because I didn’t know exactly what to feel. My brain hadn’t had the time to absorb all the information I had heard in the past twenty-four hours. I think Mr. Rodriguez understood me, because his next question was one I had an answer for “What happened?”

I didn’t want to answer him. I had promised myself from the beginning that whenever I was at that facility, I wouldn’t let my personal life come between me and my passion for swimming. I hadn’t ever broken my promise, and would suck it up and tell Mr. Rodriguez everything was alright. He wouldn’t believe my little white lie, but he knew that I didn’t want to talk about it. This time when I didn’t play my little tough act, he knew that it wasn’t like the usual bad grade, or fight at home, or sudden realization of how life wouldn’t live up to your measly expectations.

This was a real issue. A very personal one which I didn’t exactly know how to react yet. I didn’t know whether to scream, to cry, to pull my hair out, to jump into the pool never to surface again, to laugh, to throw a tantrum, to pretend everything would be okay… I simply didn’t know.

I looked at the pool, the distance suddenly looking long and tiring. I wanted to swim to clear my mind. I didn’t want to take the information in when I could simply ignore it for a couple of minutes and enjoy my little nirvana. I needed my little dose of freedom before I had to face my life. I needed it so bad. No whistles blow, but I dive back in.

Mr. Rodriguez let the issue go, and jumped back into his character: the tough, strict coach. I knew he wanted me to vent about it, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to. Not now. Not now. Please, not now. All I knew is that while I was swimming, the bell rang indicating the ending of yet another day at the pool.

The bell resonated as gunshots in my ears.

And as I left the water, everything came crashing down on me. Reality struck me hard. I thanked my coach and said “See you next time, coach,” then went to the changing rooms. Out of the water I felt self-conscious. I was somewhat skinny, not very skinny though, and it wasn’t because I didn’t eat much, but I had a fast metabolism. But I still didn’t like exposing much of my body other than in the pool, where the water would keep my mind away from my self-conscious thoughts.

Swimsuit, cap and goggles off. Shower on. Goodbye all traces of my temporary freedom, see you next time I come to the pool, whenever that will be. Shower off. Clothes on. Shoes on. Hair combed. Step out of the swimming facility.

Welcome back to reality, Tristan.

I don’t show any visible reaction. All my thoughts, all my views, all my opinions are loud screams in my head, but remain silent on my unmoving lips. For I don’t want to be caught. I don’t want to speak. I don’t feel free. And in my mind as I looked into the blue sky outdoors that contrasted this black and white world, all I thought was “My brother is going to war…My brother is going to war…My brother is going to war…”