BODIES OF WATER by Ruth Davis
Two Turns of a Somersault
I was friends with Ilene Miller the summer after third grade because she had a swimming pool in her backyard. It was an above ground Doughboy, three feet deep with blue vinyl sides and white vertical ribs. We’d perch on the narrow, plastic ledge, then tumbletuck into the water, racing from one side of the pool to the other. Ilene usually won because she could turn around underwater.
Ilene and I invented Hiney Boppers. We’d hold hands and, on the count of three, jump up, spring to the bottom, then push off the soles of each other’s feet into backward somersaults. In a perfect Hiney Bopper, our butts would meet and bop against each other on the way around.
Ilene’s neighbor, Jill taught us how to do handstands in the pool, and we spent whole afternoons upside down, our legs spoking out of the water, judging whose stayed the straightest, the longest. We dove for pennies and had underwater contests, counting one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand to see who could hold their breath the longest.
My favorite game was Whirlpool. We’d walk counter-clockwise along the inside edge of the pool until the momentum of the swirling water lifted and carried us around the circle. When the water was moving the fastest I loved to turn around and push my body against the force.
The Pull of a Strong Tide
For most of my childhood, we lived on Long Island, the fish-shaped peninsula east of New York City. In sticky summer traffic it was an hour’s drive from our house to the beach. Weekdays, when my mother took us, we went to the bay. At low tide I could wade out more than a hundred feet and the water never got higher than my bikini–bare waist. Even on the brightest day, the water was a thick, murky brown. My brother and I did the Dead Man’s Float, lying face down in the water, eyes and mouth closed with nose plugs on, daring to see who would come up first, gasping and losing.
My mother stayed on the beach, watching us from the shade of the blue and white striped beach umbrella. She guarded our towels and eyeglasses and the Styrofoam cool chest, filled with green grapes and ready peaches and my uneaten ketchup and corned beef sandwich. On weekends and holidays when my father came along, we went to the ocean at Jones Beach. He’d body-surf with me through the waves, out to where the walls of water were breaking. Just as they peaked in front of us, he’d squeeze my hand and yell “Jump!” and we’d both push up off the pebble–shell bottom, taking deep breaths, just in case.
Sometimes I’d stand on his t–shirted shoulders so he could toss me into a high breaker. Once, instead of diving through the water, I went under. I somersaulted in the swells and my head banged into someone’s legs. Gritty salt water stung my eyes and flooded my nose. I came up for air just as another wave crashed, but I couldn’t stand up because my bikini top had slipped up. I held my nose and ducked back under, pulling my top back on as the wave roared over me. When I finally resurfaced, my father was several yards away, laughing, a clump of seaweed stringing from his glasses.
Buoyancy
I have my own swimming pool now – built in, with steps and a loveseat, even a diving board. Petita, our cat, likes to sleep at the end of the board, her thick black tail dangling over the chlorine–blue water.
Early mornings, when the summer sun is barely a light on the water, I plunge into the deep end, scattering the sunken mulberry leaves around the bottom drain. With my eyes closed, I tilt my head back, face skyward, and let the water pull my hair off my forehead as I come up for air. I stand, suspended, barely treading water as my legs touch pockets of cold below the already warm surface.
Mostly I swim at night when the lukewarm water is the only relief from the oven–hot desert air. I do laps of scissor kicks and make snow angels in the wake. I spring and splash from one edge of pool tile to the other, turning somersaults and making waves all around me.
When I’m done sloshing water onto the pool deck, I float on my back, my arms and legs spread–eagle just below the surface of the water. Only my toes and face touch the night air. Ears submerged, I close my eyes and breathe until I can no longer tell where my body ends and the water begins.
