Kale influenced #1 and #10. She’s vegan and has been trying to get me to join her. And she’s learned to swim laps for meditative reasons. She tells me there’s nothing like the calm and the rhythm you reach after the first mile. You find your buoyancy, apparently, and it’s heaven once you get the hang of it. If it works for Kale, I’m willing to try it. Kale named herself after her favorite leafy green. Up until tenth grade, Kale was Karen. She never liked that name.
My name’s Tate—Tate McCoy—and I like it just fine.
Kale and I are stretching on the lawn at Barton Springs. It’s 11a.m. and already a scorcher. Barton Springs is a long, natural limestone pool, spring-fed, and 68 degrees year-round. It’s a thousand feet from one end of the pool to the other, three football fields long, where serious swimmers do their laps. Everyone out there now, some of them elderly, has swim caps on. They move through the water like human fish. They appear to not mind the cold.
“I can’t believe I didn’t think to get a one-piece,” I say. I’m in the bathing suit I bought last summer, and it’s a bikini.
“Next time,” Kale says. She’s arching her back and grabbing her toes in some yoga move.
I do a few lunges and sit-ups. Stretching has never been my thing.
“You really swim a mile here? That’s impressive.” I’m looking at the far end of the pool, wondering just how far it is.
“I’m telling you,” says Kale, “learning to swim, the right way, will change the way you think about working out.”
“I pretty much don’t think about that at all.”
“Well, that’ll change, too. Once you get the hang of doing laps, you could go on forever. It’s the most relaxing thing. And typically, people don’t think of exercise as a form of relaxation.”
“Excellent point, Leafy Green.”
We go to the shallow section to get used to the temperature. Kale walks right in, dunks down, gets her head wet, and squeezes water from her hair. I’m having trouble going in past my ankles.
“It’s freezing,” I say.
“May I remind you this is Texas in July?” Kale says. “Freezing is a good thing.” She disappears for a while, like an eel.
I get up to my thighs, but it’s torture. All goose bumps.
A cute guy passes, trailed by a group of six kids—a lesson, obviously. I’ve seen him somewhere before, this guy.
Kale resurfaces next to me and squirts a fountain of water from her mouth into my face.
“Nice,” I say. I splash her good. “Very mature. Plays well with others.”
“So try a lap already!”
“Wait, check out that guy over there, the one teaching all the kids.”
“Sawyer Madison,” she announces. “He taught my lessons, too. He’s good. I recommend taking a class, at least one. You learn a huge amount about how to breathe, how to relax, how to let yourself sink until you find your place of buoyancy, just below the surface.”
“Where have I seen him before?”
“He goes to our school. Moved here last year.”
I shake my head. “Wasn’t at school. This is going to drive me crazy.”
Kale is demonstrating buoyancy by floating on her back.
She says, “Did you know women with fake boobs float better?”
“You’re not helping me figure out where I know this Sawyer guy from. I’ve totally seen him, like up close.”
“Are we a wee bit obsessed?” says Kale.
“No. He’s just familiar.”
“Well, you should sign up for a lesson.”
“Or a boob job, apparently,” I say. “Okay, so teach me something. Anything.”
Kale says, “Well, first you need to get all the way wet.”
I suck in a breath and dunk myself.
“SHIT!”
“Now,” says Kale, ignoring me, “swim with me over to that other side. Swim however you’ve been taught or however you’re most comfortable.”
I thrash about for ten strokes or so, unable to do the breathing thing without losing the rhythm and drinking the pool.
“Keep going,” Kale says. “It should get easier. Let yourself get into a flow.”
When I finally arrive at the other side, Kale is there waiting for me, watching.
“You beat me, of course,” I say. I’m gasping. “Damn, there has to be an easier way. That just about killed me. I told you I’m not a natural in the water.”
“The easiest way is to take a formal lesson. I could tell you what I think you’re doing wrong, but I’d be guessing. Sawyer would be better. He even does a class for adults who are phobic, or can’t stay afloat at all. You swim fine, you’re just not graceful about it.”
“Grace would definitely not be a word I’d use to describe what I just did.”
I tell her I’m not about to make a fool of myself by swimming in front of Sawyer. “He’s cute,” I add.
Kale says, “Tate has a crush!”
“I don’t! I’ve just seen him somewhere…”
Kale has had the same boyfriend since 9th grade—Simon—and they are a totally solid couple. She doesn’t have to think about how she acts or how she looks. And maybe because of this, she acts great—always herself, never self-conscious, never trying to impress anyone. And she looks great, because, well, Leafy Green is gorgeous. She couldn’t look bad if she wanted to.
I convince her to get in her mile of swimming without me. I’ll practice. As she glides off she says, “Experiment with your buoyancy.”
“Roger that,” I say.
I watch her for a bit to see if I can learn by imitation. She looks perfectly synchronized—arms beating out a rhythm, feet gently propelling, head up on the left, now the right. When I try to do what she’s doing, my whole body twists to get the breath. I need a more swivel-y neck. And then it happens. Every time I have any thought about my head or neck, I hear it. My brain conjures up the sound it must’ve made. Blunt object to her skull, not once, but sixteen times. The first one would’ve sounded very different from
