Taking the plunge

"I just flew in from Miami. And boy are my arms tired."

So goes the old Vaudeville joke. 

It has special meaning for me today. Not because I was flying, but because I was swimming. And as I struggle to summon the strength to click and clack these keys, I am writhing in pain from my shoulders down to my weary trite-producing knuckles.

Faithful readers of this blog, all 8 of you, know that true to my Piscean nature, this Siegel loves the water. I have written extensively about swimming and its magical therapeutic powers. It is, as I've told a new friend on Linkedin -- Head of the US Masters program or something like that -- a writer's sport. By that I mean it is conducive to thinking, breathing, and more thinking.

Years ago, I swam the English Channel for a fundraiser. 

Not literally, but figuratively. It was all at my local pool. And I managed to swim 3 miles a day for 7 days, the distance from Dover to Calais, and raised $4000 for Wounded Warriors. 

Then, like this morning, my shoulders cried out in pain and I scurried about the house to find and finish the remains of my codeine-enhanced cough medicine. 

Mmmmmm, temporary opioidal relief.

I was impressed with myself. But nowhere near the amazing literal crossing of the Channel by one of my daughter's friends and classmates from grammar school, Abby Bergman. I am a relative landlubber in comparison to her many achievements, in all manner of water. 

But last week I got the itch to get back in the water. Especially at the coaxing of Ms. Muse who pointed out, "you have a beautiful outdoor heated pool within a well hit golf shot of your house, why don't you start swimming again?"

And so, I pushed myself away from the PayPal-owned computer and the myriad of projects that always seem to be due tomorrow but not decided on until next quarter, and strapped on the Speedo. 

Speedo goggles, that is, I'm not Speedo swimwear ready. Nor are some of the other old geezers at the Plunge in Culver City.

As my feet broke the surface of the 79 degree warm water, I immediately felt a rush of adrenalin. I won't say it was like returning to the womb because dripping in amniotic fluid frankly doesn't seem so appealing, but I was in aquatic heaven. 

It was a balmy winter day in Southern California. I had my own lane. And, much to my surprise, the reliable freestyle stroke came back as if it had never gone away. Like ear and nose hair.

Stamina, on the other hand, is questionable. And I found myself huffing and puffing like a chainsmoker after a mere 100 meters. However, this is not my first aquatic rodeo. I know from previous swimming lapses, that my laps will return. And so will my rhthym, such as it is.

It just takes times, persistence and plenty of Extra-Strength Tylenol.

From my first outing...