My instructor hovered over me, her feet planted firmly on concrete, waiting for me to come up for air.
I was alone in the cool water of a high school pool, humbly out of breath after a few minutes of struggling to reach the deep end.
"You looked better than I thought you would," she said kindly. "You know, after what you told me."
I'm guessing she was relieved that I didn't immediately sink to the bottom.
What I told this graceful young woman, who swam competitively in high school and now teaches private lessons, is that I could survive in the water doing a doggy paddle for, I don't know, eight minutes?
That I'd broken my right arm clear through at age 15, and it had never fully healed.
That somewhere in childhood, maybe or maybe not related to that break, my love of diving to the bottom of the deep end to reclaim a penny twisted into a palpable fear of being immersed under the shallowest water for more than a few seconds.
That I was tired of being afraid.
I took a week's staycation earlier this month to organize my home office, defrost the freezer, ride my bike, hang out with my dog — I know — enviable stuff.
Mostly, I stepped away from my middle-aged, hamster-wheel life to face a four-decades-old fear of swimming and learn a decent front crawl. I secretly doubted I could do it.
The week before my private lessons began, I confessed my plan to friends gathered at a barbecue on our deck, figuring that I'd be less likely to bail if people were on to me. My friend Lisa offered a welcome look of understanding.
"I'm working on my bucket list of fears, too," she said.
Bucket list of fears. I'd never heard the expression.
It was perfect.
Lisa was inspired to do her own fear-tackling after reading a book by Noelle Hancock, titled "My Year With Eleanor: A Memoir." At 29, the author lost her job, so she decided to pursue Eleanor Roosevelt's challenge to "do one thing every day that scares you," right up to her 30th birthday.
To be honest, I've never been a fan of traditional bucket lists. Too much planning takes all the fun out of stuff.
I'm not suggesting that we stop making lists, or stop dreaming. I just think we should keep those lists short, pick a few, and remain open — always — to the possibility of rich, serendipitous moments.
Besides, bucket lists seem best suited to us boomers facing a shrinking number of good years ahead. There's something bittersweet, if not frantic, about the idea.
But as Hancock proved, anybody can experience the giddiness and confidence-building of overcoming a fear, whether it's sky-diving, or public speaking or driving or walking alone into a restaurant.
Or putting on a swimsuit bought years ago that's still in perfect condition due to lack of use.
I arrived early to my first lesson — and I never arrive anywhere early. I forgot my goggles. And a change of clothes.
My teacher and I talked for a few minutes. Then I climbed, one-two-three, down stairs into the water with my heart pounding, certain that this was a bad idea.
She asked me to swim a length so she could observe me. I did so, in an awkward mix of weird strokes. Somehow I got to the other side, breathing heavily.
She said very little to me throughout our lessons, but her words, when they came, were absent any judgment. She told me that I was fighting against my own body in the water. I felt no defensiveness. I wanted to laugh out loud, the metaphor was so spot-on.
And I'd waited so long to get to this point.
She showed me a stunningly simple technique to help propel me through the water: to roll my body as I lifted each arm out of the water. She told me to focus on my breathing.
One, two, breathe. One, two, breathe. Then one, two, three, four, breathe.
When I got sloppy, forgetting what she had taught me, she encouraged me to Slow. Down.
My forays to one side of the pool, then the other, got easier, fun even. When my lessons ended, I began practicing my on my own.
The other day, I stopped at a nearby lake on an early morning run to watch two men swim out into the dark blue middle. I thought, "Not today, but someday, I could do that."
Correction: I will do that.
What a kick.
gail.rosenblum@startribune.com 612-673-7350 • Twitter: @grosenblum
