You were told to wear the blue one-piece
because the two-piece seemed too much.
The instructor’s whistle sliced the air,
marking time with each sharp note.
You lined up at the pool’s edge,
feet flat against the concrete lip,
waiting for the water to strip you bare.
The water is not cold.
It is just unfamiliar.
She says, blow bubbles through your nose,
says it’s easy to breathe underwater.
Says kick, not like a horse, but like
you love the floor leaving.
No one tells you
that swimming begins with surrender.
That you must let your body forget
it was built for land.
She says arms like windmills,
says float like a leaf,
but leaves only ever
go limp in gutters.
Week one,
you tread water like prayer,
each movement a question
you’re afraid to ask out loud.
Week two,
a boy says you swim like
you’re drowning.
You let the words sink.
Think: same thing.
Think: he doesn’t know
what it means to look up
and still not breathe.
Your mother in the bleachers
folds and refolds a towel on her lap.
You curse her under your breath.
That summer, she told you
God watches even when you’re underwater.
Week three,
your legs cramp mid-lap.
You clutch the pool’s edge,
gasping like something
trying to be born again.
The instructor says, breathe,
but you can’t tell what part of you
is water and what is panic.
That night, you dream
you forget how to float.
You wake up sore
in places no one sees.
By week four,
the instructor slides a foam noodle
beneath your belly
like a secret you’re finally allowed to hold.
She says, trust it.
But you’ve spent years
tightening your spine,
so nothing slips in or out.
You clutch the foam
like a maybe, like permission.
You glide the pool’s length.
They clap like it’s victory.
But all you feel
is the quiet of your own limbs
doing what they were told.
You learn to shake the water from your ears
without flinching.
You learn no one rescues you
unless you pretend not to need it.
You learn the deep end
is not a punishment
if you never ask for help.
Later, when a boy asks
why you don’t like beaches,
you’ll say the sand.
You’ll say shells pricking your soles.
You won’t mention
how the ocean has no edge,
how it keeps pulling,
how it waits beneath you
quiet as a whistle,
watching,
just in case you forget
you were never meant to float forever.
Alyssa Ilaguison, a 4th-year BA Communication and Media Arts student of UP Mindanao.