When you are swimming, especially with my myopic eyes, it is only things in the water that have any clarity. My goggles and the water itself act as lenses and I can see a man sight better under water than I can when I take my head out of it!
     It is not surprising then that the details of what I see under the water during my sixty lengths are of more interest than anything else: the gaps between the tiles on the pool floor; the odd pieces of detritus that wash around; arms, legs and bodies all pass my generally uninterested gaze. The only colour in my monochrome underwater world are the bathing costumes of the ladies - the men's are usually nondescript and functional, unless they are those absurd long shorts that I think are uniquely designed with anything but swimming in mind.

     From time to time, however, some guy will have some startling bathing costume which cannot be ignored.  Recently it was a garish cut-up design of some antipodean flag which commanded attention as it was so unlike the black of navy blue briefs of everybody else!

     Swimming is not the most intellectually engaging of sports so there is plenty of time for musing and the body automatically goes through the motions of overarm and I begin to wonder just how much they cost and what they are made of.

     Briefs are not the choice of swimming costume of any but the dedicated swimmer and I know that inflated prices for material heavy costumes are sold on the premise that the material is some new form of substance that will keep colour, deflect water and make you faster.  This was part of the thinking that got me started on what eventually became this poem.

     I also thought about how easy and direct my swimming was when I was a child, and then compared that with what I do now each time I have a swim.

     Some differences are simply sense.  Swimming is much more enjoyable with goggles; the shoes and the hat are demanded by the regulations of the pool; the ear plugs are because I hate water trapped in my ears, and since the pool is not directly linked to the changing rooms then one of those magic towel that soak up water and dry quickly is simply sense when getting changed.

     But things are different and the difference is what informed the latter part of the poem.

     This is the first poem I have written which has a sort of chorus and I am still wondering if it adds anything!

     The last lines before the final chorus made me think.  I do enjoy swimming, but not in the same way I did when I was a child.  I think that swimming now is more of a need for me than an occasional pleasure.  I need to think more about the word 'fun' and wonder just how that relates to my swimming experience!

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Cotton, Dacron, Jersey, Orlon,

Elastane and Aqualast,

Spandex, Lycra, Latex, Nylon,

Chloroban and Durafast!

When nappied underpants were gone

(but still with mop of golden hair)

the reflex clack of grannie’s knit

magicked a onesie just for me,

baptised in Barry Bay.

Scratchy garments’ thirsty sag

increased my weight a hundred fold,

but not enough to hinder dad

from flinging me behind his head.

I’d fly and shriek with pure delight

before the splash and scrambled gasp,

‘Do it again! Again!  Again!’

Until my father’s arms were tired.

Cotton, Dacron, Jersey, Orlon,

Elastane and Aqualast,

Spandex, Lycra, Latex, Nylon,

Chloroban and Durafast!

I was told how long before

I’d learned to walk or talk

I’d crawl in pools

directly to the edge.

Each time

(and just before I fell)

my mum or dad,

would scoop me up

until, and serially fed up,

my father’s patience snapped:

I crawled towards the drop –

he let me go straight in. 

And then he carefully

fished out the coughing,

drowned-lite babe. 

A lesson learned,

he fondly hoped. 

But placed, unspluttering,

upon the side, I resolutely

moved again

always towards

the margin’s tempt.

And water that

I simply loved.

Cotton, Dacron, Jersey, Orlon,

Elastane and Aqualast,

Spandex, Lycra, Latex, Nylon,

Chloroban and Durafast!

When I was young

I swam with ease:

undress and bathers and then in;

and swim and out and towel dry.

Three ha’pence

on the trolley bus

red chlorine eyed

for home.

Cotton, Dacron, Jersey, Orlon,

Elastane and Aqualast,

Spandex, Lycra, Latex, Nylon,

Chloroban and Durafast!

Now, ear-plugs, goggles and a hat

Slip-ons for feet (the rules say so);

and towel large, commodious –

and all in substances

that were not made

when I began to swim.

A warm-up length,

pre-exercise

and set my watch.

A metric mile.

Two lengths

cool down,

post exercise,

deodorant and after shave;

with cream for feet, and face as well

before I sit and have my tea.

I feel

much more

professional.

Much less

like someone

having fun.

Cotton, Dacron, Jersey, Orlon,

Elastane and Aqualast,

Spandex, Lycra, Latex, Nylon,
Chloroban and Durafast!

The title of this poem is somewhat unconventional, but I think that it tells you something about how I feel swimming is now treated: an opportunity for marketing and for encouraging people to spend so much more than the cost of a pair of bathers and a towel!

     In my local pool more and more people are bringing a whole bag of impedimenta with them to the pool side: webbed gloves; all types of floats; cut-down, stunted flippers; full face masks with snorkels up the middle; clipboards with length types; nose clips; palm boards and lord knows what else.  I feel positively primitive with my few bits and pieces!  I don't even wear my bone induction headphones any more!