Yesterday, we went for a drive through the countryside about 30 minutes outside of Prague.  It was a town called Dřísy.  Now to the average Irish eye, that word is simply pronounced: Drisy.  Well, if I may, allow me to educate you on the Czech language.  (Seriously, I know five words).  

See that funny little ‘hat-sign’ over the letter R?  That makes the R sound nothing like an R at all.  In fact, it sounds more like this:  zzzjjuh.  I kid you not.

The line above the letter I (or fada for my locals) does just the same as it would in Irish.  Makes the I sound like a long E.   So, the word itself is pronounced like this:

Dzzzjjuheeesy.

I swear I haven’t been drinking. Although saying it aloud makes me feel as if I’ve already had a bottle of prosecco, and am slurring my words.  

Speaking of prosecco, I do wish I’d had one yesterday in Dzzzjjuheeesy.   (I bet you’re still trying to say it, aren’t you?!) 

I’m not a swimmer.  I can probably do the breaststroke in the form of doggy paddle for about 30 seconds and then I sink.  Doesn’t seem logical for the athlete I once was!  And yet on Friday night, at a friend’s house, by midnight I’d had my fair share of two bottles of prosecco.  Launching myself into the beautiful pool from the grass, I began swimming for all of Ireland.  No fear at all.  Annabelle, my partner, couldn’t believe the ease and grace with which I performed my doggy paddle.  My version of the butterfly combined with the back-stroke was a sight to behold.  I thought I was brilliant. 

Not so however, yesterday, as we approached the River Elba in Dzzzjjuheeesy.  We took our flip-flops and shorts off and stood at the edge of the river-bank.  It was a very small gap between the tall reeds, where the bank sloped up enough for us to walk in comfortably.  There was room enough for a handful of people, and there was hardly anyone around.  In the distance on the other side of the river, there were a few lads fishing.  Close by, there was a woman with her child in a bright red paddle-boat, slowly floating down the river, looking very relaxed.  

At first, I gazed into the mirky, muddy looking water.  It looked slimy, and there were tiny little fish swimming frantically.

‘I’m a bit of a swimming snob’, I faked being very experienced in this matter.  ‘It looks dirty to me’.

Annabelle, my partner, looked blankly at me and said ‘it’s fish, it’s foliage, and some flower petals. It’s nature. Not dirt’. (Annabelle later told me, she too was quite reluctant to get in, but was forcing herself to pluck up enough courage for both of us).

I admit I have no right to claim the title of ‘swimming snob’.  I barely got wet last summer in Malta, clinging madly to a noodle as Annabelle’s 81-year-old mother shimmied around me like a mermaid.  Prior to that, it had been about ten years since I attempted swimming in another outdoor pool while living in Santa Barbara, California.

Annabelle uttered the word ‘YOLO’ which is a term used by young people meaning You Only Live Once.  I laughed at the sound of it coming from Annabelle’s mouth.  It seems so reckless, so immature, and yet so appropriate.  

I smiled, nodded, but still didn’t move.  ‘YOLO’ I whispered to myself, loud enough for Annabelle to hear me.

Completely randomly, a very large, grey-haired older woman appeared beside us in a bikini.  She was probably 65 at best, and her bright pink two-piece left nothing to the imagination.  I was so taken by her love of herself, how at peace she was with her large folding body, and how she appeared not to have a care in the world.  

She looked at us, nodding something in Czech.  I’m sure she could sense our trepidation.  Slowly, and confidently she waded into the river. Annabelle speaks Czech so posed the question of ‘is it nice to swim in here?’  Apparently, the answer was spot on.  Annabelle relayed the English version. Yes, it’s lovely, the current isn’t very strong, it starts to get deep about here (where she was now standing), it’s very refreshing and you’ll enjoy it.

That was enough for both of us. Although the thought did cross my mind that Annabelle could have told me anything to get me in there.  Maybe the woman actually said no it’s absolutely awful, I really hate this part of my day, I wouldn’t go in it if I were you.

We watched the woman effortlessly move through the tiny fish, clearing the water in front of her, pushing the leaves to her left and right, and out into the middle of the river.  We turned our focus to removing our t-shirts, both silently agreeing if that woman can do it, so can we.  

And we began our submersion. It was a very unsteady river-bed. I hated the slimy feeling beneath my feet.  Annabelle is like a fish, a strong swimmer from growing up on the beaches of Malta, so she went first. She invited me to hold onto her shoulders, which I clumsily did, whining like a baby with squeaks of ouch, ouch, oh I don’t like this.  Annabelle is well used to selectively ignoring my random outbursts.

‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it’s cold’, I admit I was complaining like a spoilt kid – the Czech woman looked back at us in our half-panicked state. I’m sure I saw a smirk on her face, but it was a soft, warm, re-assuring smirk.  The water was a pleasant cold, definitely chilly on the willy as they say, and I had a few ooohs and ahhhs before full submersion.  Once we were in, it was wonderfully refreshing.  The sun was beating down, it was 34 degrees in Dzzzjjuheeesy, so the welcoming embrace of the River Elba, was much appreciated.  

I lasted 4 minutes exactly.  I got about 10 metres out, far enough from the bank where my feet wouldn’t touch the bottom, did about seven doggy paddles, turned onto my back to float for a minute, but then didn’t like the water in my ears.  

‘Okay, that’s enough for me’, I spluttered through the tiny fish.  Annabelle was just starting to enjoy it.  

‘I’m ready to go back now’, this time I’m sure I inhaled one of those tiny fish, or something else through my nose, which in turn made me sneeze.  I have a terrible aversion to snot, (even my own) not to mention that the sneeze interfered with my not so perfect technique.  I grabbed onto Annabelle again and she willingly obliged to drag me in the last 5 metres.  I could tell by the subtle up and down movement of her shoulders, that she was in stitches laughing at the state of me.

The problem is, I’d already decided I wasn’t strong enough to last any longer.  I felt I couldn’t thread water the way I should have been able to.  I don’t like admitting that, but it’s true. 

As we sat on the edge of the river, me huffing and puffing after such an ordeal, we saw a mother duck, wading along, closely followed by 5 tiny new-born ducklings.  They moved seamlessly along the river right in front of us, leaving a tiny wake behind them, all moving in precise rhythm to keep up with their mother.  I reckon it was their first time in the River Elba too.  They were probably afraid like me.  And their mother was teaching them not to care.  Just go.  Trust their ability.  I can remember becoming so consumed by this sight, that every other thought in my head quickly disappeared.  It was an unsolicited moment of meditation.  It was beautiful.  

Once the ducklings were out of sight, we brought our attention back to where we were and both of us noticed that the old lady, we’ll call her Marta, had disappeared.  She was no-where to be seen.  There were only three or four other cars parked along the river bank, all of which we had accounted for. It was a mystery!  I’m quite certain, she was like one of those characters from Sensate on Netflix (anyone watched that?), where she quite possibly had only appeared in our minds.  Were we the only ones to see her?  She just happened to come along at the time when we were both extremely hesitant.  And then, in the blink of an eye, after she’d made sure we got in, she was gone again.

Call me crazy but I am quite certain neither of us would have taken the plunge (pun intended), had jolly old Marta not shown up in her neon bikini.  

It got me thinking about my blog and how one of the messages I want to get across is No More Pretending. No More Being Afraid. I started this blog with those words at the forefront of my mind.  Marta doesn’t pretend.  Marta doesn’t give a shit.  I wonder if she knows the impact, she had on us yesterday.  Unbeknownst to her, she got two scared 50-year-olds to take a dip in the river.  One of us was quite petrified, the other rather hesitant.  She got this nervous scaredy-cat to go outside my comfort zone. I can’t stop thinking about Marta.  Who is she, where did she come from, where did she go?  Everything about her was fantastic. There she was in all her glory enjoying a beautiful day in Dzzzjjuheeesy.

So, at 50 years old, I’m now more determined than ever to master this swimming business.  Sometimes, it takes a perfect stranger to put things into perspective for us.  It didn’t matter what language she spoke.  It was her body language that spoke to me.  Her confidence, her strength, her ‘not a care in the world’ attitude.

I’m going to be more like Marta.  No more pretending.  No more being afraid. Inhale the fish through your nose.  Take the plunge!  You’ll feel fantastic afterwards.  And I do. What is it that you’re afraid of, that you’d like to conquer?  Be more like Marta. YOLO.