Bodies in Winter by Robert Knightly Page B

kid who’ll be forever grateful, and not only for the diploma. Conrad made me a swimmer, as well, long distance as it turned out. In my senior year, I was among the better high school swimmers in New York State. For a kid with few positive accomplishments, the cheap trophies I earned were shields that protected me from the street’s many temptations.
    But ‘among the better’ was not Olympic caliber, or even college scholarship material. When I emerged from high school with a diploma and a pair of empty pockets, I had to choose between work and the streets. My answer, guided by Conrad, was the United States Army.
    The army was good for Harry Corbin, especially the camaraderie, and I eventually came to feel about my platoon as I had about the other members of my swimming team – the ‘us’ part of it at least as important as the trophies. Thus, by the time I was honorably discharged three years later, I was well prepared to join the ‘cop family’ Ellen Lodge had mentioned, the one that had walked away from her.

SEVEN
    M y third break was swimming itself. On a purely physical level, distance swimming demands that you learn to calm your mind. This is literally true. Stroke/­stroke/ breathe; stroke/stroke/breathe; stroke/stroke/breathe; stroke/stroke/ breathe. Every stroke is designed to pull you through the water with maximum efficiency, every breath to fill your lungs completely.
    Take this to the bank. Mental agitation of any kind interferes with these goals. When you’re angry, or even frustrated, your stroke becomes ragged and you wobble from side to side in your lane. Your lungs become tighter as well – a definite no-no when you get less than a second to breathe between strokes.
    All of this is compounded by the conditions. With your ear plugs in, you hear nothing beyond the splashing of your arms and legs. With your goggles on, you see clearly only when your face is in the water. A red stripe on the bottom of the pool, which you dutifully follow, becomes your visual universe. In the end, your attention turns inward simply because there’s no other place for it to go.
    I remember learning this lesson the hard way. Whenever my stroke was off, Coach Stehle would have me swimming laps until I was ready to sink to the bottom. Then he’d have me do a few more.
    Initially, I took the obvious course. I tried not to think about anything that might upset me. Fat chance. I was a confrontational child and I needed my enemies. But what I did learn to do, finally, was strip my thoughts of emotion. An image would come into my mind – of my parents, for example, huddled around a mirror striped with lines of cocaine while I foraged through the cupboards in search of dinner – and I’d observe it without any feelings at all. Or I’d imagine Ramon Arellano trying to intimidate me in the lunch room without further imagining myself driving a knife through the side of his throat.
    By the time I finished my junior year, I was pretty much addicted to swimming. The pool was the place where I could look at myself without arousing emotions like fear, rage and self-contempt. Not that I liked the angry fool I saw. But at least I didn’t hate him. Sure, he was a jerk who did everything he could to ruin his life. But he was my jerk and I could make of him what I would.
    In my senior year, I began to redefine myself. I didn’t want to be a jerk any more. I knew that going in. Putting a face to the new self I hoped to create was much more difficult. What did I hope to become? The question was never directly answered. Instead, as I swam my way through high school, then through a long tour in Berlin, I not only became less angry, I began to like my life, as it was and as I hoped it would be. I wasn’t asking for much. I had no grand ambitions. I just wanted an ordinary life, as free from the chaos of my childhood as possible.
    And so I continued to believe as I walked out