Two weeks ago, I wrote a glowing review of Neuralink’s achievements with BCIs. I promised a Part Two which would cover the messier aspects of the story, as well as what other players in the field are doing. That article is a croissant, it needs multiple rounds of folding and cooling to bring out the layers. So while it’s in the fridge, here’s a microwave mug cake.
Dear John,
When I met you, I didn’t know you were a lifeguard. You were doing some paperwork, and I was checking out the pool because my husband and I wanted to join. I must have looked nervous, because you asked, “Can you swim?” I said yes I can, but I’m not very good, I just learnt last year. You said you would give me some tips. I laughed and said thanks. I thought you were just being nice.
I need to inspect a pool before I swim in it. The one in Pittsburgh was five feet deep at one end and twelve at the other. The lanes were set up to be the same depth throughout: the first lane was five feet, the second was six feet, and so on. I only used the first one, because I couldn’t swim the full length of the pool yet; I needed to stand up after three or four strokes. I think this sounds strange to good swimmers—but each breath was a struggle for me.
One day, I swam a full length without stopping. I made my husband film me. I shared the news with extended family. A few days later, I swam in the six foot lane. Then the seven foot lane. It was strange to hold on to the wall with my feet dangling in water. I would straighten my legs to confirm that I couldn’t touch the floor. I stayed there for a few minutes between lengths, catching my breath. I even swam in the twelve foot lane once, amazed at how far the floor was, and that I wasn’t freaking out about it.
Then we moved to New York. Our new pool-to-be had lanes going in the direction of increasing depth, so that each lane started at four feet and ended at eight feet deep. It was longer than the Pittsburgh pool, so I was worried I wouldn’t have the stamina to do a whole length. I devised a plan: use a kick-board to go from the shallow end to the deep end, leave the kick-board there, and swim back. I was confident that I’d be able to at least get to the five foot deep part before I needed to stand up.
This worked the first day, except that I was embarrassed about the number of kick-boards I piled up at the deep end (five). I couldn’t do the whole length, but I figured if I just kept at it, I’d get there, like I had before.
The second time we went to the pool, I must have been tired. I probably didn’t rest enough at the wall after kick-boarding one way. I felt myself getting short of breath. I knew I just needed to make it to five feet. Even five and a half was OK. I remember thinking, “Whatever you do, don’t try to breathe in underwater.” But I did. And then I panicked. You know what happened next—the lifeguards who were substituting for you that day must have filled you in. I flailed around for a bit, and they pulled me out.
What I felt worst about was that they made everybody else get out of the pool; I didn’t want to interrupt people’s workouts. One of the lifeguards told me, “If you ever feel out of breath while swimming, you should stop. You could faint.” I didn’t want to tell him that the only way I could stop was to stand up; I didn’t know how to tread water.
“The worst has happened,” I kept telling myself over the next few days, “and you’re fine. Those lifeguards know what they’re doing.” I went online to see how many saves lifeguards make every year, and wondered if they thought I was stupid for not reaching out and grabbing the lane divider. I tried not to replay it in my head.
The day we decided to go back to the pool, my stomach seemed to be eating itself from the inside. I wasn’t sure if they would even allow me to swim—would they ask me to take classes first? I cried in the changing room. I didn’t know what I was going to do—stand in the shallow part and do bubbles, maybe—and what I would say to people. I’d go back to the old “Sorry, I’m still learning, please go around me”, I guess.
You were there. You waved me over and asked if I was the one that was helped out of the pool the other day. I admitted that I was.
“I’m going to help you,” you said. It was not a suggestion.
“I’m going to teach you not to panic. We won’t let the fear become permanent. Get in the shallow end and get comfortable. Then we’re going to try something.”
And that was it. Every time I returned to swim, you were there and I did what you said. You would notice when I entered, wave and say “Get in the shallow end and get comfortable. Then we’re going to try something.” And slowly, I re-learned all the steps—bubbles, floating, kicking, arms, breathing. You had me go halfway down the length of the pool, holding the wall, and swim back to the shallow part. You started teaching me to tread water. You led me, step by gentle step, to overcome my new fear of the deep end and swim right next to the wall so I could hold onto it if I needed to stop.
That first day, when I was getting comfortable, an old lady entered the pool. She had been there the day of the incident. I hoped she didn’t remember me.
“Sorry, I’m just going to stand here for a while, I’m just learning,” I told her. “Please go around me.”
“I recognise you,” she said. “I’m glad you’re back. It’s brave of you.” I managed a thank you.
You didn’t have to help me. You didn’t have to be gentle, backing off when I said I wasn’t ready to try the next thing. You didn’t have to explain the situation to other swimmers. You didn’t have to say “You got back on the horse” that first day, and then explain, when you saw my confusion, that getting back on a horse is the first step of re-training for a rider who has had an accident.
We went to the pool today and they told me that you’re out for the summer, guarding beaches and training other lifeguards. The last time I saw you, as I was leaving, you gave me a fist bump and said, “You did good, kid.”
So did you, John.
- Amrita
Fabulous
This is so sweet! 💜 And I’m so glad you got back on that horse :)