Ammi Midstokke: Ambitions of a would-be mermaid

I know how to swim, but I have about as much grace as a toddler with those bright orange arm floaties, bobbing about somewhere between ecstatic-at-floating and half-drowned-by-splashing.

I learned to swim the way most kids in the 1980s did: by not drowning. My grandparents had a swimming pool in their backyard, but the martini bar was in the house, so we were left with the sage advice to “stay close to the edge.” Photographic evidence would suggest that I was occasionally supplied with a flotation device, though it was neither secured nor reliable.

Despite the safety of a rubber Pocahontas canoe, the most significant hazard to my life was the proximity of my big brother. Seldom in agreement about whose turn it was, I have memories of seeing my mother launch from the pool’s edge to fetch me from the turquoise water as I drifted toward the bottom, robbed of my raft.

The Los Gatos pool must have provided adequate training, for when we moved to the expansive waters of Lake Pend Oreille, I somehow managed to stay afloat. It was not until Disney’s “The Little Mermaid” came out that I really peaked as a swimmer. And underwater singer, I might add.

I cannot say whether it was nostalgia about those summer days, twisting and spinning beneath the surface of our clear lake, eyes open and legs merged in my imaginary mermaid tail, or if it was the Moscow Mule I had just consumed, but when my friend suggested we relay-swim the length of the lake next summer, I said yes.

I did not tell her about how I gave up trying to snorkel last summer after swallowing unhealthy amounts of Mediterranean seawater. Or how I “swim” about twice a year, mostly after a wave knocks me off my paddle board. What I did tell her was, “We should train.” What I hoped, was that floating in my six-foot bathtub counted.

Some years ago, I had to cross a glacial river in the midst of a journalistic enterprise, chasing adventure racers in Patagonia. The sun had just risen. I had taken my frozen-solid, soaked long underwear into my sleeping bag to soften them enough to put them back on my body, before clambering down a mountainside in the Darwin Range toward the river. It was the kind of cold that makes one’s bones ache and feels biologically wrong.

That day, I could swim. Everything I had learned in my college swimming courses, plus years of endurance sports, and a desperate drive to stay alive, drove me across the river, fully clothed, with a loaded pack. It was a miracle no one died, though a few came close. The wrongness of it, the real and present danger of plunging into frigid water with little recourse but to make it across and not miss the sand bar on the opposite side, somehow robbed me of my joy of cool water.

It feels viscerally threatening now, and I brace myself for the shock of submersion, even when the water is pleasant. How many naked moonlight swims have I missed because of this? How many leaps off boats and bridges, splashing games with my child, post-run dips on hot summer days?

The length of Lake Pend Oreille from Buttonhook Bay to the Sandpoint City Beach is somewhere around 34 miles. A few incredible athletes have solo-swam this length before, including world record swimmer Elaine Howley in 2014, and locally-grown Kevin Woodruff last August.

We are only half as ambitious, planning to share the swim between the two of us. There is a lot of time between now and July, however, and the likelihood that our optimism is fueled by stiff eggnog is high. I have claimed dibs on being Ariel, if we opt for a side-by-side.

For now, I have signed up to the local YMCA to start swimming laps in the pool, where there is always a lifeguard on duty. Part of me fears the unknown and newness: This is unfamiliar terrain (possibly because actual terrain is what I am familiar with). Part of me is determined to overcome this inhibition and reclaim my joy in all things nature. I will start in the chlorinated pool and work my way outdoors, come spring.

Perhaps I will one day slip into the crystal waters of alpine lakes again, or swim the lengths of pebble beaches for fun, or even be willing to cold plunge after sitting in the sauna. In the very least, I will be swimming more than once next summer, and not by accident. With any luck, I will even enjoy it.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com