I had a few false starts, but I finally made it to a public lane swim and IT. WAS. GLORIOUS. 

I’ve extolled my deep love of Smythe Park Pool before (okay, more than once), and this year I almost wept, sitting on the edge, with its 50 beautiful metres stretching out in front of me, with only six of us allowed in. (I mean, it never really got much busier than that pre-pandemic, but still). The trees lining the pool fence were shedding, and I swam back and forth and back and forth through tiny little flowers that I learned afterwards were linden flowers—the origin of my name, Lindsay. Fitting really, as, after this long, impossibly hard childcare-less winter, I am finally starting to feel like myself again.

 
I must admit, after many swim tethered swims, it is disorienting to be MOVING while swimming, watching the bottom of the pool slip under me. It really does feel like the different between running on a treadmill, and running on the sidewalk—I felt like I was flying!

The length swim slots—10:30am-12pm—aren’t the most convenient, but so far, I’ve been able to juggle meetings and childcare to get at least a few in each week, and I’m pretty sure it is saving me.

I even have a recurring alarm set for 7:55 every Thursday morning so I remember to log into the City of Toronto site and sign up for next week’s swims. I know the online sign up system doesn’t work for everyone, but I admit, I love scheduling my swims in advance.

I never think anyone has an outdoor pool until I get in an airplane and then I'm pretty sure EVERYONE has an outdoor pool and HOW CAN I BE FRIENDS WITH THEM PLEASE? Look at all those tiny pockets of turquoise blue. Just glorious! (What I'd give for an outdoor dip during this mid-October heatwave!)

Cue Swimply - the Airbnb of backyard pools.

I feel a bit conflicted: the former lifeguard in me wonders about safety concerns, and what about chlorine levels...? But the swimmer in me can't wait to jump into someone else's backyard for a dip. (You KNOW we're going on a Swimming Holes We Have Known Swimply tour next summer!)

I chatted about it with CTV News. (You can read it here, just imagine it with lots of hand gestures!)

There are only 2 Toronto pools for now, but I have great hopes for next summer.

I have been dreaming about the day when my kid goes to swimming lessons and I sit on the deck WITHOUT a suit on since his first Guardian swim class three years ago. Kerry wrote about her farewell to Guardian Swim a while back and it has been my touchstone for all those days bouncing around the shallow end making starfish and singing Ring Around the Rosy. I love swimming, (CLEARLY), but I hate Guardian Swim, a semi-free-for-all with barely-there instruction and teachers who insist you dunk your clearly petrified child under water or tell your 5-month-old to kick his legs (psssst, he doesn't know what his legs are...)

BUT, this week, it arrived. Solo swim classes. I brought a book. And no bathing suit. I was so excited.

And then my little guy walked onto the deck, looking so small against the backdrop of the pool. He followed his teacher, "Coach Brian" as he's known around here, into the shallow end. My first-born is hesitant around water (unlike my running-off-the-dock-at-any-given-chance second born), and to see him stand on the water table and blow bubbles, his small hands on his small hips, so clearly nervous and so clearly brave cracked me open.



Usually when we are swimming, our bodies are touching. I'm holding him under his arms, or he's balancing on my hip. We blow bubbles into each other's bubbles. We chase after toy zebras together, his legs kicking. It made my body ache, seeing the water up to his waist, blowing bubbles with an entire shallow end between us.

I was back in Parklawn Pool, and it was 1984 and I was standing on the table in the shallow end, desperate for my Yellow badge. I too was terrified, but also trying to be brave. I was him and I wasn't him at all.

I tried not to look so he wouldn't see my fear, or delight, I wasn't even sure what it was.

I opened my book and pretended to read, watching him out of the corner of my eye. I'd read a word, then glance up and he'd be kicking with a noodle. I'd read another word and glance up and he'd be giving Coach Brian a high five.

I've felt shades of this before, this heart-bursting, teary pride and clear distinction of him being his very own unique person in the world. It happened first when he ran into his classroom at daycare and was swept up in a hug by his caregiver, Yordanke, and again when he's played soccer with a skill I can't quite fathom and gone to birthday parties and fallen in with his pals with such ease and joy. But this was different. He looked so vulnerable in his little green whale trunks, his shoulder blades so tiny and delicate. This was so visceral.

I swam in the very same pool the day I gave birth to him, just hours before, though I had no idea then. I told him that on the way home. "Did I like Smarties when I was a baby?" was his response, eating his swimming bribe, I mean reward—one red and one orange Smartie.

I shook my head and tried not to cry.

He has swimming lessons again next week, and I will bring my book and try to read, but I know I will probably just stare at this beautiful, incredible body that once did flip turns inside me while I swam, flutter kicking against my ribs, and I will burst with pride and ache with nervousness, that line between us still a bit blurry.

One day this line won't be blurry and he will swim and I will read, but now that I've graduated from Guardian swim, I'm no longer in a hurry.

A while back, Kerry Clare asked in the comments how the lightbulbs in the flood-like lights towering above indoor pools are changed, and ever since I haven't been able to stop wondering (Yes, breastfeeding at 4am is a perfect time to obsess over those damn light bulbs, thanks for asking!)

So I finally asked a lifeguard! And he knew! And then I followed up with my all-knowing pool/swimming source, Coach Dave...

Cherry pickers, scissor lifts and/or "zoom booms" (telescopic forklift-y things).

They bring them in from outside and drive them on the deck (how this happens, I'm not sure, but apparently much of this equipment is max. 6 feet wide, so maybe they get in through double doors?)

AND, they have to close the pool, and sometimes even drain it, for fear of falling/broken glass!

Tada! Mystery solved!

Labour Day Monday marked the last day for swimming outside in Toronto, and with air show madness down by the water, it almost didn't happen. But I persevered, and on attempt 2, I made it into Sunnyside's beautiful turquoise blue. It was totally packed, deep end to shallow end and every square inch of deck space and it was mayhem in the lane swim area, but it was still such a perfect final dip.

I swam back and forth, dodging late summer flailing arms and untamed kicks, reflecting on this most incredible summer of swimming. And what a glorious summer it has been complete with:
- kicking off the swimming season in Lake Ontario
- a swimming road trip with my swimming ladies
- my very first midnight dip
- CLIFF JUMPING – and celebrating a year of swim blogging
- the best swimming-centric family vacation, complete with a playpen on the dock!
- learning to jump into water, instead of taking forever on the ladder
- being so inspired by Penny Oleksiak (who started school today - ha!)
- knowing that my hero Mark Tewksbury read this blog (I might have wept!!)
- learning about, and swimming in the silkiest black water
- tackling my longest swim yet (also the most boring!)
- the second round of swim badges
- swimming with my kiddo all over the west end of Toronto
- sharing my love of Toronto swimming with CBC radio's Matt Galloway
- SO! MANY! DOCKTAILS!


Fittingly, at the end of my dip, my favourite beach towel, the one I've had since 1998 when I was lifeguarding indoors (worst!), tore. Sob. And now the pools are closed for the season (except for a few hours a day at Alex Duff pool!), and I will have to relive this glorious summer in turquoise photos and scraps of float-y poems I've penned on the edge of pools and lakes and rivers.