Underwater

It's quiet underwater. In Phnom Penh, I wake up to a rooster that crows the same way Trump tweets: relentlessly, nonsensically, and cockily (great pun). Then comes the construction, music, motos, and tuk-tuks, as well as the softer sounds of girls eating breakfast and laughing before leaving the dorm. On a trip to the pool this week, sticking my head underwater felt like unplugging a vacuum: my mind cleared from the constant noise I've grown used to hearing.

Part of my duties as Leadership Resident is organizing cultural activities for the dorm. A limitless list of pending events includes trips to museums, boat tours, sports activities, and even a good ol' American pancake breakfast. However, the top request is always swimming.

I was swimming before I had enough hair to deserve a swim cap. Being underwater has always been a source of liberation for me. Swimming is thoughtful and thoughtless. As I rode with Harpswell girls to a Phnom Penh swimming instructor, I couldn't wait to be able to share the relief that water brings.

This Harpswell outing was not only some girls' first time in a pool, but also their first time sticking their heads underwater. I took on a role of assuring girls that going underwater won't hurt, and that they won't drown, and that their bodies naturally want to rest on the surface. I'm sure that there were a lot of metaphors for trust floating around (another sick pun).

Swimming lessons made for rapid bonding. Another group of us are heading back next week.

Thanks again for checking in!