Confessions of a Driving Instructor

500 Words: What happens in Vegas…

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/143350

Lowering myself inside, I pull the door and sink into the comfort of velour plush.Buckling up, I use a different hand. It feels odd.Strapped in, I breathe, deep and slow. I will myself to stay in control.Staring straight ahead, I go through “the talk” – seatbelt, mirrors, proper driving position and so on and so forth. I’ve already given the “driving a car is like being armed with a loaded gun” talk three times this week, so I skip that one now.As the key is turned in the ignition, I feel my heart sinking into my stomach, or is it my stomach rising to take the place of my heart? Either way, something’s churning inside me and it doesn’t feel good. “Down boy! Down!” I chide my innards, mentally lumping them together into the form of a pesky canine of undisciplined nature. In response, I find myself wriggling around in my seat. “Control!”, I tell myself, “Control!”I will not allow my face to give anything away. I wear a mask of inscrutability. I will ooze confidence.In gear and moving off, I involuntarily grab at the seat belt. My fingers are clutching at the webbing as we properly indicate and make a safe left-hand turn.My bursting lungs force me to exhale and then gulp. To avoid detection, I turn to look out the window but my look doesn’t linger, I am on duty and I sharply turn back to get my eyes on the road ahead. I attempt to radiate calm.We progress smoothly and at a safe speed but why do we seem to be so close to the middle white line? I feel myself shift my whole body to the left, as if willing the car to follow me away from the centre. And then, suddenly, we are going around a fairly decent curve and it looks as though we are going to be hitting the next road marker at any minute! My upper body jerks back towards the right and my brake foot madly convulses downwards onto a nonexistent pedal. I can feel myself hyperventilating. My fingers are now cramped around the seatbelt, rigor mortis style. I try to breathe whilst at the same time peeling my digits off the belt. Silently, I mouth my mantra “control, control! “ We happily sail through a roundabout. I think “Hey, that was good” and then I panic – my brain overloaded with questions – did we indicate correctly?, Were there cars on the left? What about the right? Did I miss anything? I stop clenching my teeth and hunching in on myself. My son’s driving is going well – we are both still alive and we haven’t hit anything…yet.A friend sees my car parked at the playing fields and comments on the “L’” plates. Lots of people do. Over the last few years those ”L’s” have almost become a permanent fixture.“You must be an expert by now” they joke. I laugh, joining in the banter, not willing to confess the Vegas that has become part of my life.Teaching your kids to drive is gut-wrenchingly scary! There are tears and laughter, loud swearing and silent prayers, cold sweats and frayed tempers. Not every outing is mentally exhausting – some can actually be quite pleasurable. But when one of our driving adventures hasn’t gone quite to plan, and my teenager pushes all my buttons and the accelerator too far, I stumble out of the passenger door with legs like jelly and a head about to explode, vowing to keep all my angst to myself because what happens in the Vegas of our driving lesson stays in the Vegas of our driving lesson while I doggedly continue to breathe through my mantra of “control, control”…until the next time.

Water baby

500 Words: Shaped by childhood

https://open.abc.net.au/explore/126195

Fingers of ice dig into my skin, dragging up the length of my body. The panicked heat of my head and face the antithesis of the chill of the rest of me.

I cling anxiously to the side, fingers cramped into position. Unmoving. Numb. 

I have trouble feeling my feet. My teeth chatter in time with those of the rest of the kids in the line. No solar heating consolation here. Anguished cries can be heard, sometimes outright sobs.

The lapping of water becomes the white-noise backdrop to the palpable fear.

Mothers with attendant younger siblings in strollers congregate on the other side of the Olympic pool, a long, long way away. There is no one to comfort us now. The pungent odour of chlorine rises from the water, filling my nostrils, swirling around my shoulders, engulfing my headspace. I struggle to keep alert.

Staring straight ahead, my bobbing face is only a few inches away from the broken tiles that are adorned with furred streaks of mould. I follow the crack-lines with my eyes, a game of concentration as I wait for the scariness to begin. Again.

And so it does, the instruction to stick faces into the water and blow bubbles. Breathe in…blow out. Breathe in…blow out. In…out. In…out. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Next, breathing practice. All to the count of three, shouted at us with a military-like precision. Faces in and then we blow bubbles out, turn heads to the right, left ear still in the water, faces back in. Other side. And on and on and on.

Our class is whittled down, day by day, as the cold, the barked instructions, the sniffles and nervous tummy aches take their toll. But for those of us that remain, we move on to letting go of the side, kicking our legs, using foam boards, perfecting arm strokes, dog paddling, diving in and safety jumps. Our progress is steady and sure. We are a child army drilled in the ways of water and we will obey instructions and achieve.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

At the end of two weeks, when I graduate to “swimming” freestyle and earn my certificate, I feel total exhilaration. A whole new, wonderful, watery world has been opened up to me and it feels so exciting! So amazing!

As scary and difficult as it had been, the outcome of being able to make my way through the water at my own speed (and survive) was truly incredible.

And the fantastic thing is that that incredible, exhilarating, liberating feeling remains with me today, numerous decades later. 

Whenever I wade out into the surf, dive into a swimming pool or float down a river, I experience the blissful joy of my childhood. I remember those sixty minute swimming lessons at the local council pool – and how one hour there felt like three. I remember how terrified I was to begin with and I remember the journey of learning.

And as I dive under then float, go dog-paddling, enjoy a lazy backstroke or just muck around in the water, I remember and appreciate the wonder and thrill of learning to swim all those years ago.