Swimming laps has always been where I do some of my best thinking. The rhythm of my breathing, the steady pull of my arms through the water, and the quiet that exists beneath the surface have a way of untangling whatever knots have formed in my mind. Once I’ve solved whatever problem brought me to the pool, my thoughts begin to wander. They drift from one memory to another, seemingly carried by the same current that my strokes create from one end of the lane to the other.
Recently, my mind traveled to the many places I have been fortunate enough to swim throughout my life. Some were ordinary neighborhood pools, others lakes, rivers, and oceans. Each holds its own story. One of the first to surface was Biddeford Pool, Maine, where my aunt and uncle, who lived in Boston, owned a summer house.
Our visits always began in Boston. We would spend the week swimming at the homes of several of my aunt’s Junior League friends. As a child, I thought every pool was magical, but one remains crystal clear in my memory. It was a black-bottom pool edged with large natural stones. Instead of bright blue tile and concrete, it blended into the landscape, reflecting the sky and surrounding trees. It felt less like a swimming pool and more like a hidden pond where nature and design had quietly agreed to coexist.
By Friday afternoon, anticipation would build. We knew we were headed to Maine. My aunt and cousin spent the entire summer at Biddeford Pool while my uncle made the drive from Boston every Friday after work. He barely paused after arriving. Quickly shutting off the car, he would hurry into the house, change into his swimsuit, and announce that it was time for the beach.
Their English Bulldog, Jonah, understood the routine as well as any of us. The moment he sensed we were leaving the house, he became a blur of excitement. We followed the narrow sandy path through the beach grass, breathing in the unmistakable scent of salt air and listening to the gulls overhead. Then, as if someone had fired a starting pistol, we all ran together toward the surf.
The Atlantic was breathtakingly cold. There was never an elegant way to enter it. Rubber rafts in hand, we would shriek, laugh, and dive beneath the waves anyway, surrendering to the shock of the icy water. Within moments, the cold became exhilarating. Looking back, I realize that those evening swims taught me something about joy. Sometimes the greatest pleasures ask you to be brave for just a moment before rewarding you completely.
Almost every evening we shared the water with a group of nuns from the nearby convent of The Sisters of the Presentation of Mary. The nuns arrived in matching black bathing suits and swim caps, walking with quiet confidence into the surf. As a child, I watched them with fascination. There was something wonderfully ordinary about the sight, yet it also felt timeless, as though they had been making that same evening pilgrimage for generations. They never seemed hurried. They simply entered the water, swam their familiar route, and returned to shore, leaving behind only gentle ripples.
When I think about Biddeford Pool now, I remember more than the cold Atlantic or the beautiful beach. I remember the rituals that defined those summers: my uncle’s eagerness to reach the ocean after a week in the city, Jonah’s joyful sprint across the sand, the evening light settling over the dunes, and the quiet procession of the nuns into the sea. These are the moments that remain with us, not because they were extraordinary on their own, but because they were repeated with love until they became part of who we are.
Even now, as I swim lap after lap, those memories rise as effortlessly as bubbles to the surface. Water has always connected the different chapters of my life. It has been a place to play, to think, to heal, and, sometimes, simply to remember.
