Swimming in My Own Pond

     Ten or so years ago, when my new house was being built, a friend walked with me to a spring downhill from the house. 

"You know, Diana," she said, "you could dig a hole below this spring and you'd have a pond."

    A swimming hole on my own property? A swim every day of the year? I was thrilled with the idea.

    The machinery came up. 

The hole was dug.  A diving and sunning platform was built, with a ladder into the pond. I arranged a small cascade of rocks and installed a pipe from the spring to bring water down in a little waterfall. I brought down an enamel bathtub with the idea of creating a black-plastic-pipe solar heating system for a dunk in hot water after a cold swim. The hole filled with water.

    The mud settled out. I swam in my own pond.

    For a day or two.

    Then the pondwater sank back into the ground. The hole would not hold water.

    I added bentonite, but it didn't work. The ground was just too porous.

    Year after year the pond sat empty. Some years, with a deep snowfall, it would fill, but even before the weather—or the water—cleared enough for a swim, the water sank back into the ground. 

    I have been very unhappy with my pond.

    A couple of weeks ago a ferocious storm dumped three feet of snow here on the mountain, felling countless trees. Once the snow melted and the weather cleared, I walked down to the pond, late one afternoon, to investigate the damage. 

    Firs, oaks, and madrones were strewn in the woods. Three lay across the pond. But look! The pond was full of clear, green water. 

The spring was gurgling through the pipe onto its waterfall of rocks. The fallen trees left a hole big enough for swimming. All I had to do was clear the blackberry brambles off the platform for access, and then I could swim!

    The next morning I took clippers, a broom, and a towel down to the pond. I freed the top platform of blackberries and cleared enough of the bottom platform to walk to its edge. Then I took off my clothes and walked into the pond.

    Oh, my God! It was icy cold. I walked deeper in, up to my knees, up to my thighs. Then I thought, "This is just too cold. I'm not as good as I used to be. I can't do this," and I turned around to climb out.

    But what happened? What made me turn back towards the deep water, sink in, and push off? It was a matter of body over mind. The mind said, "For Pete's sake, get out of this cold water," and the body just went on in, anyway. I swam a complete turn around the perimeter of the pond, then climbed out. I wrapped the towel around me, turned to look at the clear, cold water, and gave ecstatic thanks to the spring for filling the pond and to my body for taking me into it.