The Swim Platform

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Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone,

in which

nothing much happens,

you feel good,

and then you fall asleep.

I'm Catherine Nikolai, I create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens with Audio Engineering by Bob Wittersheim.

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Now,

I have a story to tell you.

Not much happens in it, and that is the idea.

Just by listening to the sound of my voice, following along with the soft shape of the tail,

will rock your mind to sleep.

This is a type of brain training.

The more regularly you use it, the more you listen, the more easily you'll fall and return to sleep.

I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

If you wake again in the night, Don't hesitate to turn an episode right back on.

Our story tonight is called The Swim Platform.

And it's a story about one of the last swims of the season.

It's also about remembered cues from long ago diving lessons.

The sound of water lapping against boards.

Swans and side-strokes.

The smell of varnish and the feel of sun on chilled skin.

And an unhurried, perfect moment, savored before the fall.

It's time.

Get as comfortable as you can.

Relax your jaw.

Soften your shoulders.

Even feet

and hands go limp now.

You have done enough for the day.

It is enough.

Take a deep breath in through your nose

and sigh from your mouth.

Again, breathe in.

Let it go.

Good.

The swim platform.

On the far side of the lake, there was a single oak tree turning bright yellow.

Just the one.

I stared out at it from the platform.

It shifted under my feet as slow waves struck the sides.

I'd spent the morning diving in,

swimming, climbing out,

and laying in the sun till I was warm enough to dive again.

And I was warm and ready now.

My suit was nearly dry,

and the wood planks of the platform pleasantly stung the soles of my feet.

I liked to stand tall,

hands on hips,

and hook my toes over the very edge of the boards.

I'd done it since I was a kid out here,

though the platform had been rebuilt once or twice since then.

The oldest version I could remember was cobbled together from spare lumber,

all cut at different lengths, and painted with a varnish that smelled like resin and was a bit sticky on hot days.

That one had a wooden ladder that got slick with algae toward the end of the season,

and the whole thing only lasted a year or two.

We must have decided to make something less ad hoc and more user-friendly.

Because the next one was larger,

built with properly sealed planks,

and an aluminum ladder, like you'd find in a swimming pool.

That platform had lasted for years,

though it did have a bit of a slope to it.

And if you fell asleep close to the low end, you might roll right off into the lake.

Something we thoroughly enjoyed pretending to do in front front of the watchful grown-ups, moms and dads, grandparents, and the neighbor kids folks.

Then, toward the end of one summer,

in a September like this one, in fact,

a storm blew over the lake.

Rain and lightning, and very strong winds.

we woke to find a neighbor's rowboat leaning against our shed

another's beach umbrella tangled in our washing line

and the platform half sunk in the middle of the lake

I remember that there had been a cold snap shortly after

and the recovery mission that followed had been a chilly one.

We'd had to hype ourselves up,

to motor out in the pontoon and dive for the anchors

that held the platform in place.

Once we'd hauled them up onto the boat,

we could tow the whole thing to shore

where a bonfire was waiting to warm us.

and we could recount our tale of bravery and goosebumps.

I shivered now thinking of it.

My toes still hooked around the edge of this version of the swim platform.

Version three point zero, I suppose,

which we'd built the following spring.

We'd gotten a bit bit fancy with it.

I mean,

it was still just a platform, buoyed by barrels, anchored in the water,

with a ladder bolted to one side.

But we'd added two slanting seat backs so that you could plop down onto the platform

and comfortably lean back

like you were in an Adirondack chair.

We'd also painted aqua blue waves along the sides

and used a wood burning kit to sear in the date it was launched.

It was right by the ladder, and I had a habit of tracing my fingers over it

whenever I climbed aboard.

I smiled, thinking of the small small touchstone moments.

My toes hooked over the edge on the way into my dive,

touching the date on the way out.

Little rituals we build into places we love

to feel literally connected to them.

I lifted my arms up over my head, just like I'd been taught to do when I was little.

Elbows squeezing my ears, fingers pointed,

look where I wanted to go,

and a slight bend in my knees.

I took a deep breath

and dove.

I sliced through the water,

feeling it wrap around my body,

like I'd just been tipped fingers first

into an envelope and sealed up inside it.

That every part under the water at once feeling

never fails to clear my head.

I paused,

savoring the touch of the lake all around me,

then kicked a few feet to the surface and pushed my hair from my eyes.

They found that same yellow oak on the far side,

and I smiled across the water at it.

It felt like a reminder to enjoy this swim.

There wouldn't be many more left this year.

I tried out a side stroke,

a lazy kick and pull maneuver that let me take in the view

as I circled the platform.

I could already see that there were more empty boat slips than full.

Lots of folks had pulled their crafts out for the summer,

and at the end of one of the docks

was an optimistic pile of pumpkins.

I chuckled as I tipped on to my back,

thinking of how the squirrels must be looking down at them from the trees, planning their lunch.

I swam to the ladder and gripped it with both hands,

finding the bottom rung with my feet.

The water slapped at the barrels below the platform,

and the sound echoed hollowly in a familiar way.

I pulled myself up, touched the date with my right forefinger,

and sprawled out on the surface,

watching the sunlight

scatter through my my eyelids.

I was chilled from the water and sat up,

pulled my knees to my chest

and wrapped my arms around them,

letting the sun shine on my back.

I listened to my own breath,

sniffed the water away,

and pressed a towel to my face,

then stretched it out over the seat back,

and reclined on to it.

A deep sigh rolled out from my lips,

and I had a pleasant feeling

of heaviness that was easy to give into.

The sky was deep blue,

and there was a breeze touching the cool water, beaded on my skin.

I had all day

to do as I liked.

This is perfect,

I whispered,

needing to say it out loud.

From across the water,

I heard flapping wings

and shielded my eyes to look out.

A swan descended toward the surface,

his wings beating in a slow rhythm

as he reached with his webbed feet

and tilted back.

Like a stone skipped across the water,

his plump body skittered, making ripples

that spread out behind him till he was floating,

shuffling his wings onto his back

and dipping his head in to cool off.

A paddle boarder, a hundred yards on the other side of him, was stopped.

Her paddle slack in her hands, watching as well.

I smiled at her,

and though I couldn't see her face,

I bet she was smiling too.

The days were ticking down,

but we were here now,

and it was good.

The swim platform

on the far side of the lake,

there was a single oak tree

turning bright yellow.

Just the one.

I stared out at it from the platform.

It shifted under my feet.

A slow wave struck the sides.

I'd spent the morning diving in,

swimming,

climbing out,

and laying in the sun

till I was warm enough to dive again.

And I was warm and ready now.

My suit was nearly dry,

and the wood planks of the platform

pleasantly stung the soles of my feet.

I liked to stand tall,

hands on hips,

and hook my toes

around the very edge of the boards.

I'd done it since I was a kid out here.

Though

the platform had been rebuilt once or twice since then.

The oldest version

I could remember

was cobbled together from spare lumber,

cut in different lengths,

and painted with a varnish

That smelled like like resin

and was a bit sticky on hot days.

That one had had a wooden ladder that got slicked with algae toward the end of the season,

and the whole thing had only lasted a year or two.

We must have then decided

to make something

less ad hoc

and more user-friendly

because the next one was larger,

built with properly sealed planks

and an aluminum ladder

like you'd find in a swimming pool.

That platform had lasted for years,

though

it did have a bit of a slope to it.

And if you fell asleep

close to the low end,

you might roll off into the lake.

Something we thoroughly enjoyed pretending to do

in front of the watchful grown-ups,

moms and dads,

grandparents,

the neighbor kids folks.

Then,

toward the end of one summer,

in a September like this one, in fact,

a storm blew over the lake.

Rain and lightning.

And very strong winds.

We woke woke to find a neighbor's rowboat leaning against our shed,

another's beach umbrella tangled in the washing line

on the platform

half sunk in the middle of the lake.

I remember that there had been a cold snap shortly after,

and the recovery mission that followed

had been a chilly one.

We'd had to hype ourselves up

to motor out in the pontoon

and dive for the anchors

that had held the platform in place.

Once we'd hauled them up onto the boat,

we towed the whole thing to shore,

where a bonfire was waiting to warm us

And we could recount our tale of bravery

and goosebumps.

I shivered now,

thinking of it,

with my toes

still hooked around the edge of this version of the platform.

Version three point oh,

I supposed,

which we'd built the following spring.

We'd gotten a bit fancy with it.

I mean

it was still just a platform,

buoyed by barrels,

anchored in the water,

with a ladder bolted to one side.

But we'd added two slanting seat backs

so that you could plop down onto the platform

and comfortably lean back

like you were in an Adirondack chair.

We'd also painted aqua blue waves along the sides

and used a wood burning kit

to sear in the date it was launched.

It was right by the ladder,

and I had a habit of tracing my fingers over it

whenever I climbed aboard.

I smiled,

thinking of the small touchstone moments.

My toes wrapped over the edge on the way into my dive,

touching the date on the way out.

Little rituals

we build into places we love

to feel

literally connected to them

I lifted my arms up over my head

just like I'd been taught to do when I was little

elbows squeezing my ears

fingers pointed

look where I wanted to go,

and a slight bend in my knees.

I took a deep breath and dove.

I sliced through the water,

feeling it wrap around my body,

like I'd just been tipped,

fingers first,

into an envelope

and sealed up inside

that

every

part

under the water at once feeling

never fails to clear my head

I paused

savoring the touch of the lake all around me

then kicked a few feet to the surface

and pushed my hair from my eyes.

They landed on that same yellow oak

on the far side,

and I smiled across the water at it.

It felt like a reminder

to enjoy this swim.

There wouldn't be many more

left this year.

I tried out a side-stroke,

a lazy kick-and-pull maneuver

that let me take in the view

as I circled the platform.

I could already see that

there were more empty boat slips

than full.

Lots of folks had pulled their crafts out for the summer

and at the end of one of the docks

was an optimistic pile of pumpkins.

I chuckled

as I tipped on to my back,

thinking of how the squirrels must be looking down at them from the trees,

planning their lunch.

I swam to the ladder

and gripped it with both hands,

finding the bottom rung with my feet.

The water slapped at the barrels below the platform,

and the sound echoed hollowly in a familiar way.

I pulled myself up,

touched the date

with my right forefinger,

and sprawled out on the surface,

watching the sunlight scatter through my eyelids.

I was chilled from the water,

and sat up,

pulled my knees into my chest,

wrapped my arms around them,

and let the sun shine on my back.

I listened to my own breath,

sniffed the water away,

and pressed a towel to my face,

then stretched it out over the seat back

and reclined into it.

A deep sigh rolled out from my lips

and I had a pleasant feeling of heaviness

that was easy to give into.

The sky was deep blue,

and there was a breeze

touching the cool water,

beaded on my skin.

I had all day to do as I liked.

This is perfect,

I whispered,

needing to say it aloud.

From across the water,

I heard flapping wings

and shielded my eyes to look out.

A swan descended toward the surface,

his wings beating

in a slow rhythm

as he reached with his webbed feet

and tilted back

like a stone skipped across the water.

His plump body

skittered,

making ripples that spread out

behind him

till he was floating,

shuffling his wings onto his back

and dipping his head to cool off.

A paddle boarder,

a hundred yards on the other side of him,

was stopped,

her paddle slack in her hands,

watching as well.

I smiled at her,

and though I couldn't see her face,

I bet that she was smiling too.

The days were ticking down,

but we were here now,

and it was good.

Sweet dreams.