Atecozol
Now that I am retired, I have begun to enjoy the facilities at the YMCA in Peterborough, especially the swimming pool.
After several months of practice, I have managed to swim more than a thousand metres, something that fills the little boy still living inside me with quiet pride. The same little boy who had such a hard time growing up doing any kind of sports.
At the time I didn’t know that the reasons I had such a hard time on sports was because I have flat feet. Now I ware special insoles inside my shoes that help me to walk something but as a child I didn’t know, neither were my parents aware of my condition. Since I didn’t do many sports and walking or running was so painful for me, I entrain my self reading, and by not doing sports I became overweight at a very young age.
Thus, with time swimming for me be become the sport of choice. Although I wasn’t very good at because I didn’t like sports.
One day, while I was swimming, in the pool of the Y another swimmer noticed some flaws in my technique. Later, as we were getting dressed, he offered a few suggestions to improve my stroke. I thanked him and, ever since, I have been trying to improve, though, I must admit, not very successful.
That brief conversation awakened a memory from my childhood, the day I first learned to swim.
I must have been about seven years old when my family and I visited our beloved grandaunt, Ma-María, in Sonsonate.
Visiting relatives was a cherished family tradition. Twice a year, during New Year’s and Easter, we would travel from our small town in the eastern part of the country, Chinameca, all the way to Sonsonate in the west. There, we would spend two or three nights in our ancestral family home, the very place where my father was born and grew up.
About seven or eight kilometres from Sonsonate lies Izalco, where, in 1956, the government built a major tourist attraction. Using a natural bend in the Atecozol River, they created two large reservoirs and an ecological park. Along its course, the river is fed by natural springs, known for their fresh, crystal-clear water.
These springs give the river a cold, steady flow that endures throughout the year.
Those reservoirs became the place where countless residents of Izalco and Sonsonate learned how to swim. I was no exception, though the method by which I learned was, questionable.
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The volcano rises 1,950 metres above sea level, with an inclination of around 45°. The volcano remains active, its commanding presence standing proudly amid the thick vegetation that surrounds it.
At the foot of the volcano lies the town of the same name. A place rich in history, it has been home to human presence for over 2,000 years. Izalco was originally founded by the Pipil people (Nahuatl), a Mesoamerican Indigenous group primarily residing in western and central El Salvador.
They speak the critically endangered Nahuatl language and were once part of the historic Kingdom of Cuscatlán. Today, they continue to face ongoing struggles for recognition and land rights.
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We arrived at the Atecozol Tourist Centre around midmorning, ready to spend the entire day there. My father and uncle, both of whom had grown up in the area, wasted no time diving into the water. We children followed, while my mother and aunt stayed behind to set up the barbecue and arrange the tables.
My father called me over to where he and my uncle were standing. I realized I couldn’t reach them through the water. I didn’t know how to swim. The reservoir was deep for a child, though shallow enough for them to stand on the stony bottom. So, I climbed out and ran along the edge until I reached them. “Get in,” my father said. I obeyed, but clung to the edge.
He swam a few metres toward the center of the reservoir and carefully explained the basics of swimming, assuring me there was nothing to fear once I learned how. My uncle then demonstrated how to float on his back. I watched, but my attention wandered. I was far more interested in the delicious smells drifting from the barbecue, food was always my greatest motivation during family outings.
Then, without warning, I felt hands grab my feet and lift me by the arms. In the next instant, I was airborne, flying through the air before crashing into the centre of the reservoir with a loud splash. I struck the stony bottom with my buttocks.
Instinct took over. I pushed myself upward, gasping for air. Panic surged through me as I realized what they had done. I flapped wildly. Each time I sank, I waited to feel the bottom beneath my feet, then pushed myself back up. At one time I heard my dad shouting, “Swim! Swim! Swim!”
I don’t know how I did it, but I started moving. Stroke by stroke, desperate and terrified, I swam toward them. And every time I got close, they moved farther away.
Until finally, exhausted, and breathless, I reached the edge of the pool and clung to it like my life depended on it.
“You, see? It’s not so difficult when you put your heart into it,” my father said. I was furious, more from fear than from the trick itself. I wanted to get out, to walk away, to join my cousins where the shallow end of the reservoir was and it was safe. My dad had a smile and commented to my uncle something that sound like “I told you he was able to do it.”
But my uncle stopped me. “Don’t you dare leave the pool,” he said. “If you do, you won’t have lunch. You’ll have to swim to the shallow end if you want to be with your cousins.”
Before I could react, my dad’s hands lifted me again. And once more, I was in the air.
This time, I landed flat on my belly. The impact burned, and water rushed into my nose and mouth. It stung. It hurt. But I did what I had done before, waited for the bottom, pushed myself up, and began swimming.
Slowly, painfully, I made my way, swimming, toward the shallow end. When I reached my cousins and siblings, I stood there, trembling with anger.
The water hid my tears, and my runny nose. I refused to let my father and uncle see me cry. I knew they were laughing, and I would not give them that satisfaction.
Although it sounds cruel what they did to me at the time. It was the way my dad and uncle had learn to swim and therefore the way the knew how to teach it. I didn’t realize at the time that such experience had created an especial bond between my dad and me. With the years such relationship would allowed us to build a special relationship of trust something would be tested before I became a lawyer.
As I reached the shallow end of the reservoir my little brother José, whom we all called Pepe, came up to me, his eyes wide with admiration.
“Wow, you can swim now!” he said. “You have to show me how!” His words changed everything. Suddenly I was no longer feeling sorry for myself but challenged to do better since my brother showed admiration. By stating his interest to learn from me and probably avoid the way I was learning. My brother expression made feel proud of my achievements.
That afternoon, I kept practicing. I stayed far away from the deep end, but in the shallow water, I worked tirelessly driven not by fear this time, but by something new: pride.
Years later, my father confessed something to me. “I was always within arm’s reach of you,” he said. “I couldn’t risk you not doing it. But I was sure you were stubborn enough to succeed.” My dad never knew that I held a grudge against him from many years until the day he told me as we stood side by side, watching my brother Pepe compete in the butterfly stroke, striving to qualify for the Central American Games.
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