Judith ZimmerJournalist | Author | Fiction Writer

I swim as often as I can. Chlorine in the pool? Boats on the lake? Waves in the ocean? Doesn’t matter. Swimming is part of my life, always has been. Let me explain…

I come from a family of swimmers.
When my parents were young, my mother was a swim instructor and my father, a lifeguard. I don’t remember not knowing how to swim. In New Jersey, where I grew up, we swam at beach clubs, with large “L”-shaped pools surrounded by lounge chairs and umbrellas. My brother and I went to day camp at these clubs. We played tennis. We learned to dive. And of course we were on swim teams. One summer, all four of us won trophies in a swimming race on the same day, my dad taking a running late start and winning anyway!

It’s part of my social life.
In Litchfield, where I live now, several people I know have built-in pools—and I’m often invited to swim. Being outdoors in a pool is a special experience. Secluded, shared with friends, it’s a world unto itself. Everything looks different from the water. The trees are high overhead and the sky arches above them. We paddle around or float on noodles, looking up at the clouds. It’s the most relaxing time. When we come out of the pool, we put towels around our waists and don’t comb our hair. It doesn’t matter. Actually, nothing seems to matter. That’s also what the water does.

There are a lot of lakes around Litchfield where my friends and I swim. Sometimes you wade in from a small sandy beach, or walk down a dock and climb down a ladder. The bottom can be muddy or rocky. Sometimes there are weeds. (Water shoes make all the difference!) But seeing the horizon at water level with the expanse of lake and sky is worth the effort.

What is it about being in water outdoors that changes your day? Is it the reflections? The way the water moves and ripples, time just drifting away?

Swimming is part of my characters’ lives.
I’ve been writing about swimming for as long as I can remember, starting with a short story I wrote in high school about the quiet that comes after swimming. My first nonfiction book was written with a long-distance swimmer who swam around Manhattan—twice. I got to accompany her on the escort boat, monitoring and feeding her. I was so taken with the experience that I drafted a novel about a long-distance swimmer (never published). Swimming also figures prominently in the mind of one of my characters in my newest novel (currently on submission) at a crucial moment in her life. When I can’t swim, my characters do it for me.

It shapes my life.
I’ve been swimming laps on and off for years, beginning when I worked at Mademoiselle magazine in Manhattan. Several times a week I’d swim at a Y before work. A lot of other editors swam there too—and after getting dressed in the locker room, we’d march over to the office on Madison Avenue.

Sometime now, even in summer, I swim laps indoors at the Y.  When you have your own lane, and swim without interruption, you can get a wonderful full-body workout. Lap swimming is a kind of meditation where the body moves but feels weightless. After doing laps, I love to lie on my back and float, and my mind floats too.

Heraclitus, the ancient philosopher, said you can’t step into the same river twice. Is that because the river is changing or because we’re changing? One thing for me that doesn’t change—looking forward to taking that step, whether into a pool or a lake. Which is never the same twice.