a group, and a fear of large creatures rolling
in the deep. Nevertheless, earlier this spring,
I find myself on a ferry, zipping toward a
tiny Bahamian island called Great Guana
Cay—whose population of 150 numbers
less than that of the parking-lot spaces at
my Brooklyn Whole Foods—for a weeklong
trip with the company SwimQuest.
Waiting at the dock are my guides, Mia
Russell, a competitive swimmer from South
Africa, and Guy Metcalf, a swim coach
and former beach lifeguard from Norfolk,
England. Tanned, fit, and easygoing, they
make for a jovial duo, cracking jokes as
we whiz off via golf cart to our beachside
lodgings, where the other swimmers are
waiting in an airily modern, art-filled villa
that offers spectacular views of the sea (sixnights of lodging and three meals a day
are included in the $3,200 fee; trip prices
vary based on destination and duration).
We number just seven, including a chic
Frenchwoman who once worked with
New Wave director Claude Chabrol, and
a retired geneticist in her 60s (roughly half
of SwimQuest’s participants arrive solo).
I feel the need to tell the group about my
middling abilities. “I should warn you up
front that there are mollusks that move
faster than I do,” I joke. But all I receive are
supportive and encouraging replies.
“We’ll always be close at hand in the
boat, so not to worry,” Russell announces
during our informal orientation on the
terrace. She runs through procedures for
water-related ailments like cramps and
hypothermia, and demonstrates the hand
signals we are to use if we need help.
“Are sharks a possibility?” I ask, for
everyone. “Yes,” she replies, but only
shy, harmless ones, like the somewhat
consolingly named nurse sharks.
The next morning, after breakfast, we
board a dive boat manned by Troy, the
island’s unofficial mayor, and head to a
secluded reef. In the shallow end, Russell
and Metcalf film each swimmer above and
below water for a stroke analysis, which
we review later at lunch. Then comes the
daunting part: We return to the boat tohead for deeper water. When we find a
suitably desolate stretch, everyone merrily
jumps into the waves—except me. I peer
into the fathomless depths with dread
and, after a long minute, plunge in.
During this first swim, I am literally at
sea—awkward in the water, rusty with
my breaststroke, eyeing the reefs uneasily.
Gradually, though, I grow used to the
hypnotic rhythm: pull, kick, breathe, glide;
pull, kick, breathe, glide.
Every day, we traverse the sea for about an
hour and a half, break for lunch, and then
do a similar swim in the afternoon. That’s
roughly three miles a day at a brisk but
forgiving pace. No one minds if you need to
flag one of the instructors so you can catch
your breath while sunning on the boat,
or if you stop to point out a needlefish
flitting through the coral, or to giggle at
baffled onlookers.
As I gain confidence, the thrill of
watching kaleidoscopic neon fish move
through what the author and amateur
naturalist John Jerome called “blue rooms”
—the title of his winding exploration of
water and those who are drawn to it—
is exhilarating. It’s another country under
the waves. My mind feels clear, and I’m
regularly given to dreamy realizations
like, “There really is so much beauty in the
world.” I am fortified by these thoughts
and rarely feel depleted after a swim, even
though I am burning about 1,500 calories
a day—and toning and lengthening my
biceps and quads with every stroke.
Emotional breakthroughs are common,
confirms Russell. “It all comes out in the
water,” she explains of the intense feelings
she has witnessed over her eleven years
as a guide. “I’ve cried into my goggles many
times. There is this peace that overcomes
you because it’s quiet. You’re floating.
It’s womblike.”
On our last night, Russell awards a gold-
colored swim cap to the most inspiring
swimmer. The 70-year old Frenchwoman,
Patricia, who regularly led the pack
despite having recently given up a lifelong
smoking habit, wins. As she accepts the
honor, it is encouraging to think that I can
still swim long after my knees likely force
me to give up running. I take that cheery
thought home with me, along with some
newly defined muscle definition—and
a handy mental device for restless nights:
Now, when I have trouble turning off my
thoughts, I envision those glowing blue
rooms until, like the tide, I drift off. @“It all comes out in the water.
There is this peace thatovercomes you because it’s quiet.
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