Swimming lessons make up some of my earliest memories. As a kindergartener, I could float, kick and tread water. The one thing I couldn’t – wouldn’t – do was put my head underwater. I’ve seen grainy home movies of myself dog-paddling at Fingal Head, neck craned high and dry like a baby giraffe.
To break the impasse, my mum tried to bribe me with ice blocks and Barbie dolls. A succession of swimming teachers encouraged, cajoled and mollycoddled me. One even scattered coins on the bottom of the pool, hoping materialism might triumph over fear. But instead of diving underwater, I pointed my toes and, with a monkey’s prehensile grip, gathered the coins that way.
Finally, I went to yet another swimming teacher. She was having none of it. I was five years old when she yelled at me, “Get your head in the water … NOW!”
I was so shocked that I disappeared under the surface straight away. I didn’t suffocate. I didn’t drown. And as I came up for air, a little voice inside my head said, “You did it. YOU DID IT!”
Decades later, I revisited that barked order when I was about to go diving with sharks and lost my nerve. Hyperventilating, I told the divemaster, “I can’t do this.” She started to mumble something reassuring about it not being for everyone and there was no shame in having a change of heart.
But I was supposed to be writing about this experience for a travel publication. The notion of returning to my editor empty-handed scared me more than the sharks did. My swimming teacher’s voice echoed down the years. “Get your head in the water … NOW!”
The dive was exhilarating.
It’s just as applicable on dry land. It’s the precursor to “ripping the Band-aid off”, the forerunner of Nike’s “Just Do It” slogan and the complement to “eating that frog”. It’s a dose of tough love that compels necessary action. It’s a mantra for the days when I find myself faffing about the edges, failing to do what needs to be done.
There’s a time for self-compassion but there are also times – many times – when you just need to get over yourself. I whisper, “Get your head in the water … NOW!” whenever I find myself avoiding something messy, unpleasant or painful. It works for everything from tackling a year’s worth of overdue business activity statements to undergoing a mammogram.
Today, that poolside bellow might be perceived as abuse. Psychologists say tough love has its limits as a motivational tool, so perhaps other kids, my contemporaries, were scarred rather than spurred on.
All I know is that my swimming teacher’s (harshly worded) belief that I could do this difficult thing sent me hurtling through a barrier. Sometimes, tough love is exactly what you need.
