On our holiday trips to Barbados, my mother would start each morning with a long swim. My father always insisted on joining her. It was a sight to behold — she, a statuesque, slender beauty with legs as long as a Rockette’s, and my father, with his pot belly and a thick layer of sunscreen slathered over his bald head.
They’d enter the water and head toward the horizon — Mom, with her lean, athletic limbs cutting through the water in steady, effortless strokes, and my father, head down, his gleaming scalp bobbing erratically as his arms and legs thrashed about, like he was about to drown. He’d fault his lack of technique on his birthplace, explaining that Jerusalem was landlocked, conveniently overlooking the existence of swimming pools.
Sometimes I’d stop and watch them, amused by the obvious imbalance, as they grew smaller and smaller until they were little more than two specks in the distance. Every once in a while, my father would pop his head up to exchange a few words with my mother, whose smooth rhythm never broke, even as she responded. Somehow, despite the long distance, my father managed to keep up.
They often invited me to join, but while I loved the water, venturing past the quick comfort of shore was more than my “Jaws”-shaped imagination could handle.
They’d return: my mother glowing, the ideal picture of fitness, my father exasperated and exhausted, but content. He’d grin broadly, ready for the inevitable teasing I’d inflict upon him for his less-than-stellar form. That’s when he’d remind me of his birthplace, as if that biblical stronghold were somehow to blame for his lack of aquatic finesse.
Still, no matter how mismatched their styles, they swam together — every day, side by side. Looking back, I see that their morning ritual was never really about exercise alone. It was about companionship, persistence and the simple act of showing up — the kind of fitness that goes beyond the body.
Happy reading!
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com