Swim School

When Rowan was 4 years old, he badly broke his collar bone by swinging high off our backyard hammock and landing shoulder first on a protruding root. We were advised that once it healed, the best activity to strengthen and rehabilitate his shoulder after being immobilized in a sling for 3 months, was to swim. The timeline coincided with a road trip we went on to discover the USA National Parks, and luckily for us, pretty much every campsite had a pool.

Rowan’s three older brothers are fish. They use the water like it’s an extension of their nervous system and regulate through pushing forcefully through its body, the wake of their movement an indication of their inner state. Wild hysterical splashing gives way to peaceful glides and underwater dives with hardly a ripple, the water a sensory haven for my autistic sons.

I decided to take advantage of their delight in the water and coined the phrase, ‘Mommy Swim School,’ asking the boys to spend a few minutes every day practicing water safety and swimming skills with me. At 7, 10 and 12 years old, my hope was to turn their comfortable ease in the water into competence so that I was les afraid of being outnumbered in the water.

Rowan loved ‘Mommy Swim School.’ He thrives on one-to-one time with undivided attention and feels wholly secure only when he is within arm’s reach of me – both in and out of the water. At 4, his sole purpose in life was to play and the pool was an exquisite playground, but he was disappointed that his older brothers could do things in the water that he could not. Restrained by a lifejacket and his own fears, his brothers had freedom and autonomy in the water that he wanted to possess, and he was adamant about getting it.

I was honest with him. “Sweetheart, you have to put your face in the water.”

“No.”

“If you want to swim like your brothers, you have to be able to put your face in the water and let it get wet.”

“No.”

As much as he sought sovereignty in the water, he was just as equally committed to keeping his face completely dry. Rowan did not like getting splashed. The sensation of unexpected water dripping down his face, getting in his eyes or nose or ears was beyond uncomfortable, it was terrifying.

He longingly watched his brothers swim, frustrated by his own limitations. I repeated my advice, “If you put your face in the water, you will be able to do that too. Let me know when you are ready.”

In Palm Springs, the day before we headed off to Joshua Tree National Park our family hung out by the enjoying the water’s coolness against the high afternoon sun. Rowan sat on the edge of the stairs, kicking his feet back and forth in the water. He knew he wasn’t allowed to enter in without a parent or a life jacket. Suddenly, his little feet stilled and then rested on the first step. He looked at me watching him, just a couple meters away. I got up off the blue and white lounge chair, my thighs peeling off the warm plastic like skin separating from a banana. Rowan looked back at the water and then, quickly stepped down to the second and third steps, fully bent his skinny little bird knees and plunged his entire body below the surface, coming up spluttering and triumphant.

The change was momentous. The next day I dropped hot-wheels cars to the bottom of the pool and he jumped off the side to retrieve them, moving his little body downward in an ecstatic wriggle and breaching like a newborn whale with his prize.

Within a week Rowan was swimming underwater the length of a five-metre pool, rising to the surface unassisted to breathe when needed. He learned how to float, to jump in at the deep end and swim to the side, to self-rescue by rolling onto his back in the water when he got tired and needed to rest, to swim under his brother’s legs and retrieve as many toys from the bottom as he could clutch in his tiny hands. He was no longer safe and contained in a lifejacket, he was fierce and free and owning the water like he had bested it.

Rowan walked around the pool with sass like his body was saying, “I’ll show you who’s boss water, you think you can get on my face? Well, I’m gonna stick my face in you!”

When we returned home from our trip, I enrolled the boys in swimming lessons at our local rec center, booking an assessment for each to see where they would be placed after a year of only ‘Mommy Swim Lessons’ and no formal classes. Each of the kids had advanced two levels and were so excited about their progress, except for Rowan. During his assessment, my baby whale wouldn’t put his face in the water.

I was confused. Where was my confident kid who owned the water? Where was this regression coming from? He had been swimming for months now.

I encouraged him, “Rowan – you can do it! Show your teacher how you float!”

I cajoled him, “Rowan you won’t pass the class if you can’t dunk it.”

I questioned, “Rowan – why won’t you put your face in the water? I know you can do it.”

His responses were confusing and disjointed. “I am doing it. I did it,” when it was clear from his bone dry hair that not a solitary droplet of water had come near his crown.

I wondered why I had bothered paying for expensive private lessons when he wasn’t even really participating. He picked the toys up off the pool floor with his feet and talked incessantly to the instructor, barely letting her get a word in; even talking over her while she tried to engage him in practicing skills.

On the forth day of lessons, I watched him intently. I tried being curious, observing without comment. I noticed how his little body was tight and taunt, his chattering voice resounding higher than normal like a cassette rolled too tight. I watched as the instructor reached out and playfully grabbed him, moving his body through the water. Even as he smiled at her, the loss of agency was evident in his rigid limbs and strained face.

I thought about all the new skills he was learning; to trust someone in the water other than me, to listen to instructions from a stranger, to mediate all the sensory onslaught of the bright and noisy indoor pool, to regulate his body temperature against the frigid water, to be separated from his brothers. It was evident to me that the loss of control and autonomy in the pool had also created heightened anxiety which added to his aroused state of handling newness on so many levels.

As was our routine, I brought him over to the hot-tub after his lesson. The jets swirled and bubbled around his sleek black wetsuit and slowly he raised a tiny finger to pop the bubbles one by one.

As he relaxed he began to sing. A song full of murmuring and tones too low for me to distinguish words, though the meaning was palpable. He brought his hands up in front of his face and conducted the light streaming through the window towards the water, each sparkle and flicker an accompaniment to his beautiful whale song. Watching his fingers play with light is my favourite stim of his, the delicate dance so pure in execution. Not wanting to break the spell, I leaned forward and softly said,

“You worked so hard today buddy. I want you to know I am so proud of you.”

He didn’t miss a beat. Didn’t stop singing or governing the filtered light. He didn’t even look at me. But a few minutes later when it was time to go, I offered my hand to help him out of the hot tub and he said, “Just wait,” and stooped with both hands to create a cup which he brought up to his face and without hesitation poured the water all over it, lifting his wet face up to me, and smiled.