The Underwater Visitor - Published in The Windsor Review

My socks are old and the elastic has loosened. They hang over my shoes and the sweat from my legs runs straight down to the soles of my feet. In the toes the moisture fills, it makes me want to air them out, to change socks every lesson, but there isn’t time for that. Instead I block it out of my mind and keep chasing tennis balls. Coaching kids that would rather be chasing frogs, and adults that think fifty bucks buys them coordination is a hard slog even for the toughest of characters. But for someone as internally damaged as me it’s a more then a daily grind, each day is an epic battle. But I do it and I do it well. So well in fact that the question I get asked more then any other is how? So here is my response.

There are two moments I think about that get me through each day. The first is the moment I peel my socks off. The second is the moment I jump into Georgian Bay and become someone else.

Today the exact moment I slipped into the water was 9:17pm. The sun was still out, shining brilliantly on the water as it hung above distant islands. It was yellow, not yet red and orange. I know the exact time because I remember looking down at my watch just as I threw my towel over the wooden railing on top of the rocks. Everywhere around me is rock, I am so far north that I’m directly on top of solid chunks of granite dug out thousands of years ago from the receding glaciers that pulled like nails on a chalkboard through the mineral rich earth known as Canada.

Under water I open my eyes, always I open my eyes, and after nine the water has a fairy-like spirituality to it; it’s dark and mysterious without the sunlight shining in. There are ghosts in these waters who swim like clouds through the depths. This hint of green makes it appear ancient to me, like it’s somehow older and full of stories. As I look up through the clear ceiling of the lake, the real world appears to jiggle, it becomes distorted and surreal and no longer in focus. No one can talk to me here, no one can annoy me or pester me and although I’m not in control, I’m never afraid; here I am a visitor.

To start the day I woke 30 minutes before a thunderstorm woke the rest of the island. I scampered around like a mouse before the rain, getting my laundry started, sweeping the tennis courts, putting chairs away and battening down the hatches. I could see the storm coming behind a band of pink and purple clouds. It was wonderfully quiet. Soon I noticed a hot wind blow. With the wind came rain, lightning and thunder. But by 7am the storm was long gone and by 8am I was on court hitting balls, the consistent pinging of a well struck ball filled the morning air and the sound soothed me the way bells might soothe a minister.

This island, tucked neatly away from prying eyes, is a well-kept secret among tennis lovers, with 5 brand new courts, a hotel, pro-shop and marina it offers a complete summer tennis oasis. To me it offers enough coach-able hours to make more money in two months then I would typically make in an entire year.

By mid afternoon I’m wearing my third shirt of the day, the others lay soaked in sweat on the railing by the pro-shop drying under the hot summer sun. I sense a strong negativity in the air; it’s starting to crush me. As another hour ticks over my next lesson show up. He stares at me with a look I have seen before, it’s a look that says; ‘You got one hour to make me a better tennis player, plus make me feel better about my life and who I am as a person, so get going.’ I limped through it, I’m 7 hours in with 5 to go.

The first patch of shade appeared in the far western corner of the tennis courts from one of the nearby birch trees. I dreamed of being in another life, and lying under that birch tree for an afternoon with a picnic basket full of fresh fruit. I imagined the sensation of watermelon dripping down my chin, licking up the sweet cool juice with my tongue. I dreamed of the shade dancing on my face as the wind sang through the leaves of the tree. I dreamed of a lover lying in my arms and humming a song on my chest. I turned back to my reality, took a deep breathe, wiped the sweat from my brow and moved forward. There are some times I am so exhausted, so drained all I can do is put one foot in front of the other just to keep my momentum.

My next lesson was with the #2 ranked female player in the country who made the trip north to see me. The sun pelted us with its rays while the energy, heavier then ever, cloaked the whole tennis complex like a wet warm blanket that stunk. I brought her into the net after what was a mediocre beginning to our lesson. I made some observations to her until she agreed that the energy at that moment was negative. I asked her what could be done to change this fact. She was quick to respond in saying ‘‘focus on being good to each other." I nodded my head in agreement and smiled. I could have hugged her right there and then because it occurred to me that she had actually been listening all these years. Her words “be good to each other” resonated in me like a fire, a cooling flame that brought new energy. Out of this valley of suffering came a spark of joy. We began to hit again and instantly I could feel the change.

She was athletic on the court, covering it from side to side like a cat stalking its prey. I made the comment that she had grace. She smiled; "No one has ever called me graceful before." She was probably telling the truth. She is a quality player no doubt; she has some fantastic characteristics such as power, strength, and boat loads of courage. However grace would not normally make her list.

But today she was graceful and with each point her confidence grew. She struck the ball with professional precision. The energy on our court had shifted undoubtedly; the domino effect was in motion. My last couple of lessons were not as hard as I thought they would be, I had fun, the players all played well, we even laughed.

In my room, I dropped my tennis bag, and took off my shoes, I imagined as I removed the first shoe a hissing sound release from an overheated radiator. In my hands the shoes were still hot. I threw them. It always feels better to throw them then to place them gently. Then I reached down my sweat stained legs, past the sand that had embedded itself into my skin and hair. I clutched the socks and pealed them off my feet. The first was heavy and wet; I threw it toward my laundry bag. I missed, I pealed the other one off and it landed with a heavy thud next to the first one. Then I closed my eyes to enjoy the moment.

It’s a moment that can easily be missed when I’m rushing. With eyes closed I feel the clean air hit my feet. I rest them on top of the coffee table in my room; they feel a hundred pounds each. The sound of motorboats and laughter climb inside my second story window and fill my hungry ears. It seems windy in my room even though I know it’s still. I know that soon this sensitivity will pass when my feet are no longer steaming and wet. So I savour it and I don’t rush up from the couch, allowing myself to linger in the moment. I hear her words again; ‘be good to each other’ and I smile.

Eventually I change clothes, walk down from my room via the fire escape holding my weight and using the railing like a crutch to hobble down to the rocky land below. All day long my legs have balanced me, moved me. My hips are sore and my shoulder is aching. I make my way through a small patch of trees and see the bright yellow sun shining off the lake that sits still. As I near the edge of the dock I drop my towel, check the time on my watch, and without hesitation…I jump.

I am a visitor again, I’m not important, and I’m not responsible. Underwater I’m free. I will hold my breath for as long as I can. Time will stop. Here I experience truth and contentment. I work hard for this moment and its good. It’s almost perfect.

Published in The Windsor Review Spring 2011 Sports Issue