At the age of ten, while ice-skating on a lake in Poland, I was pushed under the ice as a prank by village kids and, choking, barely made it to the surface. I knew water was not my element. Ever since—whether in an ocean, river, lake, swimming pool or, occasionally, even in a bathtub—I’ve been terrified of water closing over me again. It is because of this fear that although I enjoy swimming I became landlocked, with skiing and horseback riding as my favorite sports and exercise.
Last year, while vacationing in Bangkok, a Venice of the Orient, I became aware of the ease and freedom with which the Thais approach water—the smallest children and the oldest folks swim and frolic in rivers, lakes and canals as if they were man’s natural environment. One day, at my hotel, I saw a middle-aged Thai lower himself into the deep end of the pool, but just when I expected him to start swimming, he brought his feet together, placed his hands along his thighs and with his head above the surface, began to float upright as if standing on a transparent shelf. Approaching the pool, I examined him closely: several feet of water separated him from the bottom, and there was no device to keep him afloat.
“Excuse me,” I asked, perplexed. “Why don’t you sink?”
“Why should I?” said the man. “I don’t want to.”
“Then why don’t you swim?”
“I don’t want to swim,” said the man.
“What do you do to buoy yourself like that?” I asked.
“Can’t you see?” said the man. “I do nothing.”
“But what’s the trick?” I asked, watching his every move.
“Being oneself. That’s the trick,” he said, shifting in the water. His thighs spread, his feet tucked under him, his hands clasping his shins, he became motionless again, gently bobbing with the movement of the water.
“Being oneself—that’s all?”
“That’s all,” he agreed.
“But when I’m myself and do nothing, I drown,” I objected.
“To drown is to do something,” said the man.
“Do nothing. Be yourself.”
“Easily said! Is there a place where I could learn it?” I asked.
“There is,” he replied, a bit impatient. “Water.”
“But do you know someone who can teach me how to?”
“I do. You can teach yourself,” said the man with emphasis, as he turned away.
Kosinski, Jerzy. Passing By: Selected Essays, 1962-1991 (Kosinski, Jerzy) (p. 70).