Trying to (Aqua)Fit In

A recent experience I'm still towelling off from

The view from the gym above: My new Pool Posse

I've never been a gym rat. I’m more of…a pool slug, I suppose.

So every morning at 7 a.m., I arrive at the Cowichan Valley Aquatic Centre with keen intentions of habitual physical activity. It’s my way of carving out a routine here in Duncan B.C., the edgy and charmingly-bonkers town I now call home.

As earnest as this sounds, being at the pool isn’t the same as working with the pool.

And so, morning after morning, I whinge to the regulars that I’m not seeing hot body gains from my regimen of saunas, steams, and treading a bit of water.

“You should be working out more,” Donny—a chiselled 65-year-old gym nut—tells me from the whirlpool.

I explain my unique position regarding fitness. That I kind of don’t like it.

“You like water,” he says. “Try the Aquafit group at nine.”

I accept his challenge. And wait an hour and a half in the hot tub until class.

At 8:55, I submerge into the shallow end—the lone male in a pool of ladies. I’m by no means young myself (the cutting-edge technology of my boyhood was Electronic Battleship and the Microwave), but these ladies are bonafide seniors.

I don’t know how to feel about this. I’m definitely the outlander in their waters. But if I self-identify as too young for Aquafit, I’m a judgemental jagoff. And if I get my ass kicked in the class, I’m just a jagoff, period.

But I’ve already taken the plunge. So I adopt an enthusiastic willingness and take my place in the water.

“That’s Pat’s spot,” someone says.

I wade to the right.

“You’re in Jean’s spot,” another classmate says.

I find an empty patch of pool and tighten my trunks.

“I’m Donna,” a woman in a black one-piece says. “Welcome.” She pats my wet shoulder.

“A tough class for your first time…it’s Tracy today.” Nearby ladies nod. Tracy.

On cue, our Tracy bounces onto the scene in a trainer’s tank top, shorts, and sneakers. She stands above us on the pool’s edge, all sinew, muscle, and a shark-like sense of sniffing out weakness in the waters.

“Ready ladies!” she calls to us. “Looks like we have a newbie! WOO!”

The ladies give me a cheer. Feels pretty good.

Tracy plugs her phone into a large speaker on wheels. Mambo No. 5 thumps out, and two more Aquafitters wade in to join us. Pat and Jean, no doubt.

Tracy begins her fast-paced aerobics on land, and we mimic them in water, giving rise to our own little wave pool of activity. She’s relentless, impressive, and moves like a fitness VHS on fast-forward.

Elbow-knee-sidestep-jump-punch-paddle-kick. To further rub my nose in my rookie floundering, she adds dramatic flourishes to the music, miming calls to The Ghostbusters and fanning her face to The Heat Is On.

Baptism by 80s hits

When the foam barbells come out, the workout intensifies. Alongside Donna, Pat, and Jean, I sprint on the spot while pumping my weights upward underwater. Right above us, on the second-floor windowed gym, I see men pumping weights too. Iron ones.

No matter…I clutch my pink-striped foam barbells and surge on. I’m deep into this.

“Double time now! WOO-WOO!” roars Tracy. She breaks into a land sequence so seemingly complex, it’s a wonder she remembers we’re in liquid.

Somewhere between Salt-N-Pepa and Aerosmith, it occurs to me that Aquafit has never really been demoted to a fitness fad punchline like, say, Jazzercize, Rollerskating, or The Vibrating Belt.

Aquafit is alive and kicking. And a damn good resistance-training, full-body workout. At least for this pool potato getting his health in order.

The hour passes quickly. Our class finishes big with Eye of the Tiger and a final push of cumulative kicks and punches. We all ascended the plastic ladder, and from the ladies I receive hurrahs, attaboys, and even a couple of hugs…which are slippery, weird, and wonderful.

“See you tomorrow, newbie,” Tracy says with a wink.

I’ve been awkwardly finding where I belong here in Duncan. The town still shoulders the moniker Drunken Duncan, and gets a bad rap as a town full of trucks, roughnecks, and cheque-cashing stores. For many Islanders, Duncan is a burp on the highway you hold your breath to pass through.

Since unpacking, I have been seeking potential new friends in local bookstores and coffee shops. When, all along, my new crew has been waiting for me right here in the shallow end, wet and half-naked, supportive and lovely.