#12 - Immersion
Each summer, over and over, a great drama is played out by shrieking, near-naked people of all descriptions. How familiar we are with each act of this age-old performance, entitled: I think I'll go for a little swim.
Out from behind a bush comes the actor, self-consciously sucking in his stomach on his way to the water's edge. This is a time of high expectations, purposeful strutting of one stuff and blissful ignorance of what is to come. But it does come. The first shock of something so far below 98.6 degrees it's absolutely appalling.
It's through that primary temperature-sensing organ, the big toe, that our hero and audience alike get an instant reading of something much lower than what might have been expected on this warm summer afternoon. The look on his face tells the predictable message: "This is only the third planet from the Sun for crying out loud! How can it be?" The information is communicated to onlookers by the incredible expansion of his eyes, which have grown to the size of cucumber slices.
The water's frigid, tickling edge gradually rises over ankles and calves - not particularly sensitive regions - and begins to lap at the wader's knees - the threshold of agony. Then the thighs, which have known ecstasy in better moments, now become the torture zone, each next wetted inch producing a silent scream in the now well-opened mouth of our star performer whose only thinking is to somehow get that water level up to his hips. This is based on the stupid logic that the fabric of his bathing suit will miraculously stem his excruciating thermal deficit. Big surprise - it doesn't work. We now begin to hear real sounds.
They bear resemblance to accelerated heavy breathing but are just drastically abbreviated words that haven't assumed intelligent form because of the panicky racing of the bather's mind. Cowardly thoughts of retreat battle the insane notion of playing the hero - diving now to end it once and for all. With a weak stab at humor, there is babble about warming the local waters. The scene lingers at this stage.
Without warning, the water reaches the mid-riff. Now we hear and watch genuine dramatics - bellowing and screaming accompanying hand-flapping and arm-waving, all of which can only last for so long. The show must go on, so assumes a headlong pace toward the climax.
The mouth clamps shut; the cucumbers stare at a fixed spot on the surface; a thumb and fore-finger squeeze the nostrils shut; and with a desperate heave, the great actor disappears in a splash. Gone . . . become one with the water . . . silence.
Where did he go? The audience wonders. The moments pass, and as worrisome thoughts begin to take shape, they are as quickly put to rest. The swimmer, suddenly appearing to have mastered his medium, surfaces with great energy, making a big show of blowing out a cloud of vapor with a noisy exhaust of spent air and a loud Wooooey!
To what purpose was this gripping drama? We all know how it usually ends. And again it does as the performer addresses his shore-bound audience with the cry of a man gone somewhat berserk: Hey! It's not bad once you get in!
Somehow we believe him.