Memory is trapped in the olfactory — smell and taste — locked away as intense nostalgia ready to explode its vividness upon accidental disinterment.
I went swimming today — a bit player in my fitness regime. I think I somewhat resemble C3PO swimming — if you can imagine that. I don’t float too well and I possess a klutzy mechanical stroke. In the crawl, I can only breath on my left side (a southjaw?), which led to a crimp in my neck today.
So, I thought this would be as good as time as any to practice right-side breathing. It seems simple enough. But my body starts to bob, as I reach higher with my head to breath on the uncomfortable side and splash down like a breaching whale’s return to the sea — each successive stroke reaching a greater amplification until …
I took a generous amount of water in my nose — a deep chlorinated nasal cleaning. I don’t want to start the next drug craze, but I had an intense flashback. It was the childhood equivalent of a wasabi-rush. I was seven again — it was swimming lessons on Saturday morning at the Elk’s swimming pool in my hometown. Being semi-weightless in the pool it was credible to believe. I cycled through a few more strokes until the flashback ran its course.
I didn’t fight the feeling. I let myself be seven again. It felt amazing.