Wet dreams

I have swum millions of yards over thirty plus years of competitive swimming. Every training lap has been in six pools. Hours upon hours in the same pools, with the same scenery. Then how come I can't have a normal dream about swimming? Never in one of the pools I have trained in before. They ain’t even in the same configuration from dream to dream. And I use configuration lightly. The aquatic complexes in my dreams are expansive natatoriums, either designed by over medicated third graders or Soviet era architects with penchants for steampunk dirigible hangers and inflated senses of special utilitarianism. A fully functioning newspaper pressroom in the deep end makes complete sense. Vet your sources. You misquoted the Queen on page 4.

Recalling swimming should be an easy transition from the conscious space to the subconscious realm… a concrete rectangle hole, clear water, red and blue lane ropes, and eight black lines on the pool bottom. What in the name of Ken Kesey’s imaginary narwhal would John Wayne be necking with Doris Day on an inflatable alpaca while we are in the middle of a sprint set? Entering sleep’s darkness surrenders any and all control over the evening’s REM swim practice. At least my suit is tied and goggles fit, because this is a 3-1-1 call to Oz's police station. 

The frequency of strange dreams is increasing as the board certified professionals refine my medication cocktail. Swimming through the water early on in the REM cycle is an interpretive dance of flight and underwater breathing. Every child fancies the dreams where flight is possible. Every swimmer dreams of underwater breathing… It ensures better shoulder rotation. How blissful these dreams can be. Then the spicy food enters the digestive track.

Once capsaicin chemicals pollute the intestines, weird gains creative license for the balance of the evening. My elegant stroke degrades, resembling grandma’s mallard duck whirlybird wind spinner in a molasses river. The water is quickly replaced by a poorly maintained cricket pitch. It is very challenging to get full power out of my butterfly kick when the country club’s grounds keeper goes cheap with Astroturf. The economy is booming you insolent bastard. Spring for the good stuff! The board will be receiving a strongly worded email. I don’t dare get out though. The sign clearly reads, “No rain checks for turf conditions.” I might be in the grips of a spicy food induced trip, but fiscal responsibility is multidimensional. Better finish the workout before the alarm goes off.