Swimming

Shirley B in the yard

Kind of hard to write a catchy little blog story about swimming.  The mind is incredibly active during the workout, but there isn't that much going on that translates into my style of narrative.

Crawling along the slow lane at the pool the other day I looked back at my round belly hanging down in the water and flashed on the little Shirley B rolling her way out across the Westport bar, faster swimmers in the next lane same as charter boats blasting past rolling boat onto her side in their wakes. 

Hull of the boat about the same shape as my body, most of her bulk in the deep round belly, tapered off at bow and stern. Goggles riding near the surface, same as the tiny wheelhouse windows frequently dipping below the crest of an oncoming wave, water sloshing across my back same as the boat dipping her decks under on every roll.  

I already wrote the story about the cat named Pamiers dancing from checkerboard to hatch to wheelhouse door without ever getting his feet wet?  I did the same for that matter, didn't like spending the day wearing the boots.

Back in the pool, squinting through goggles and turning my head to breath isn't so different from the tiny wheelhouse. Leave the wrong window open, seawater and electronics don't mix well.  Goggles not seated just right, eye full of swimming pool water not so fun either.  Gulp a mouth full of water, switch on the bilge pumps so I can catch a breath.

Starting to feel a cramp in the leg, same as a cannonball breaking loose back in the cockpit during rough weather.  Secure it quick before anything gets broken, relax the leg before cramp forces me out of the pool early.  

Need some speed, tweak the rpm up a notch, in the pool increase the kick rate.

Similarities start to diverge when I get tired in the pool. Then it's a relaxing soak in the hot tub and home for dinner.

Drifting a few miles offshore after the catch has been iced in the hold found me wedged between the little black cook range and the stout edge of the galley table, evening repast laid before me. Rust-stained enamel plate gently poached king salmon, mixed with egg and onion browned in the skillet, served on hot crisp corn tortillas, spicy salsa coffee-stained mug bounces off the table when the boat takes a sudden lurch.  Stick my head out the door for a look around.

Always wished home could really be as wonderful as it seemed from the fifteen wat light of that tiny galley.