The bruises are finally clearing up on my arms.

Last week if I had had to go to the Emergency Room for some unrelated something, I’m sure the staff would have taken one look at my arms and wondered if I was being abused. A few forearm bruises and major bruising on both upper arms from encounters with a rescue tube, a rescue board, and a backboard — all inflicted by teenagers uncomfortably grabbing hold of my arms to “rescue” me.

I was equally uncomfortable being the sixty-something year old taking a class with kids who could be my own kids or grandkids.

But I had set my sight on the goal, and doggone if I wasn’t going to achieve it.

The first week was awful. See last week’s post — A Full Week — which I probably should have called, “Whose Dumb Idea Was This?”

The second week was bad in a different way. On Monday, a man came in that I’ve been trying to talk into giving a talk for our seniors. I kind of want him to take me seriously, but there I was, taking a class with a 15 year old and a young 20-something.

And I was struggling.

Seriously, whose dumb idea was this?

On Tuesday, he came in again to swim. Dang.

And a few other people I knew. Dang again.

There’s literally no place to hide in a swimming pool.

I suppose I could just sink to the bottom, but then my classmates would be compelled to rescue me. Oh wait — I did that. That’s how I got bruised. (It was part of the class.)

The third night was the waterfront module and the class size went from three to ten — all teenagers except for the one twenty-something. And me.

I could feel the lap swimmers staring at me.

Ugh.

Yesterday, one of those lap swimmers came into my office with a membership question. He stared at me.

And stared.

How do you spell uncomfortable? B-E-I-N-G-S-T-A-R-E-D-A-T

Finally, he said, “Were you in the lifeguarding class the other night?”

“Um, yes,” I replied. “I was the old person.”

“That is such an inspiration,” he said. “It is good for the young people to see that.”

Whew. I felt slightly better.

Here’s the thing, though. I’ve taking the lifeguarding class a bunch of times. There are two times I am especially proud of my accomplishment: the first and the last.

The first time I took lifeguarding was 1978 at Syracuse University. I was a scrawny 115 lbs of nothing. The instructor was Doris Soladay, a tall lean woman with a confidence I wished I had.

In the intervening 45 years since I took that class, I have thought about her often.

Lifeguarding has changed. We no longer do the hair-carry. Rescue tubes were invented and became a required piece of equipment. Gloves — non-latex, or course — became required PPE along with the rescue mask. Yes, we used to do mouth-to-mouth literally mouth-to-mouth. Now there are bag-valve masks and AEDS. It has changed.

In 1978, for the final rescue scenarios, Doris Soladay paired us up with another student. She paired me with a football player. He was at least twice my weight and had no neck. I pulled her aside and asked that she pair me with someone a little closer to my size. I’ll never forget her answer.

“If you can rescue him, you can rescue anyone.”

She knew that I needed to build that confidence even more than the knowledge of how to rescue. Knowledge comes easy. Confidence, not so much.

I rescued him. I passed. And I was incredibly proud of myself.

The other night, when I passed again, I felt almost as proud.

And I whispered a little thank-you to Doris Soladay.

The bruises on my arms are badges of honor that will fade, but my sense of accomplishment will not.