Member Bio: Earlene Worrall
In addition to her dedication to raising three fantastic children and her demanding career as a Marketing Consultant, Earlene Worrall also carves out time to pursue her lifelong passion for writing. Fiction is of particular interest to Earlene. She has won some small literary contests with her short stories and poetry, and the manuscript for her first novel, Resonance, is complete. Earlene has had articles published in Today’s Parent Pregnancy & Birth and Arts in Motion, as well as comment pieces in the Toronto Star. In a business context, she has developed various courses over the years, focused against training others in the fundamentals of marketing. When gazing into the future, Earlene can discern the glimmer of a business book and another novel on the horizon.
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Earlene Worrall, reading Breaking The Surface during
the Closing Ceremonies at the Words Alive Literary Festival.
Breaking The Surface won FIRST PLACE in the Words Alive 2009 Short Story competition.
Breaking the Surface
By Earlene Worrall
As I enter the pool deck, I inhale the chlorine smell and hold it for a moment before expelling it from my lungs, like the guys smoking pot at the edge of the schoolyard after last bell. Chlorine calms me but also causes my adrenaline to kick in. Sounds paradoxical, I know, but it’s a reaction I’ve come to expect. To count on, even. That distinctive smell confirms the nature of this water – indoors, artificial, controlled. Safe.
Checking the sign on the wall, then the writing on my arm, I see that my next event is now marshalling. 50 Free. After picking up my card from the meet convenor’s table, I join the throng of swimmers in the marshall area. It’s a zoo, just like always for a short race with heats running close together.
I nod to others from my swim club, but I don’t engage in conversation. They know me well enough to expect and accept this. It’s all good. Mark looks spaced out as he gets into his zone, eyes staring but unseeing. Becky’s leaning against the lifeguard chair looking like she feels sick to her stomach. Jessica, always the consummate athlete, is doing some shoulder rotations to loosen up. Doug’s sitting in one of the chairs lining the wall, goofing around with the stiffest competition in his age category and doing his best to look relaxed. No surprise that Steph is striking a pose at the edge of the throng, in clear view of the stands, and checking over her shoulder to see who might be admiring her butt. All right, that was catty – true, but catty just the same. It really is ‘all good’. We all have our own things we do to prepare, our own motivations, our own fears. Whatever works, right?
I get so caught up in close finishes in the two heats before mine that I forget to advance within the marshall area. Suddenly I’m next. Steph stops preening long enough to tug on my arm (all right, she’s not all bad) and we move to the head of the lanes. It’s even more congested here, with three timers for each lane, self-importantly clicking stopwatches and recording readouts, angling clipboards to compare times. The swimmers are forced to weave between the timers, as if we’re the support function instead of the other way around. I maneuver to lane four, drop my towel in a fairly dry spot of deck near the wall, take my position behind the blocks, and await permission to step up.
At the command, I mount the blocks. After adjusting my goggles one last time, I look down at the water. The swimmer who has just finished her heat is up against the wall, waiting for me to dive so she can exit the pool. There are two other heads bobbing in my lane, almost directly in front of me. Neither wears a cap like the competitors. One bobbing head is small, with long sandy hair streaming around it. The other head is larger with shorter, fairer hair. It’s darkened by the water saturating it, but I know it would gleam almost blonde when dry, in sunlight. The smaller head turns to look up at me on the blocks. The face looks scared.
I know those other two heads aren’t really there, of course. I’m not crazy. Still, I’m careful to dive out as far as I can when the signal blares, easily clearing the phantom heads bobbing in my lane. No harm done; such a great start can only improve my time.
As always, panic clutches my throat when the water initially closes over me. I feel the sensation of a lifejacket tight around my chest, straps scratchy where they touch bare skin. Despite its buoyancy, I imagine that I’m slipping under the water as desperate hands grab at me.
I stroke a hard front crawl toward the far end of the pool, kicking for all I’m worth, while the scene continues to play out in my mind’s eye. The terrified woman is flailing about while also scanning the water, desperate for another lifejacket, a styrofoam noodle, a piece of wood – anything that will help her stay afloat. But the boat is completely submerged now and no debris has bobbed back to the surface, at least not in their vicinity. The instinct for self-preservation forces her to grab at the child in her lifejacket, but it can’t support them both and the child goes under again. The woman snatches a breath before releasing the child. The child rights herself in a moment and splutters as her nose and mouth break the surface. She is scared, crying. The woman feebly attempts treading water beside the child, clearly incapable of surface support.
This situation is untenable. The two are alone in the middle of the lake, surrounded by water with trees just visible on the distant shore. The single lifejacket cannot support them both and nothing else with any buoyancy has materialized. The woman offers a soothing word to the child, but she’s extremely low in the waves and takes in a mouthful of water for her effort. The woman chokes, then recovers.
Her expression changes then, from panic to resignation. Purposefully, the woman directs her flailing arms to push the child away from her. She must not be tempted again. The child bobs away in her lifejacket but reaches for the woman, unwilling to be separated. Those arms have comforted her many times in the past, and she wants them around her now. The child is oblivious to her peril, wants only to be held and have everything made all right again.
The woman’s flailing becomes more graceful for a moment, the right hand offering a gesture that is almost a wave. Then her head slips beneath the water and she is gone.
I reach the end of the pool and execute my flip-turn. I churn through the water, making great time. People sometimes remark on my skill as a swimmer. I work hard at it, spend a lot of time at the pool, and I have to admit that they’re right; I’m good. I’d say the secret is my motivation. I’m more driven than most, and it gives me an advantage over the others. It’s like I have to prove, again and again, that I can master the water, that I can swim as far as I will ever need to.
When I exit the pool, the timers confirm that I’ve beaten my previous best, also a club record. I’m swimming at provincial times now, and getting better as I mature.
My Dad is waiting for me at the side of the pool, right up against the rope barricade. As always, he says nothing, just hugs me. I hug him back, cling to him really, there amidst the chaos of the pool. As all those years before, I need more than anything to feel arms around me.
Our moment ends when teammates from the swim club gather around, congratulating me on my time. I nod and smile, trying to make my expression look natural, trying to share their excitement. They don’t seem to mind that I’m still not talking. It doesn’t matter, anyway; Doug and Jessica are doing enough talking for all of us, raving about our club’s chances at the upcoming provincial meet. They seem really psyched by my performance and I’m glad about that, truly I am, I just feel a bit detached from it all. Like I’m only partly there, you know? Maybe it will mean more once the knots in my stomach have loosened.
In the change-room I navigate around stale puddles of water, accumulations that I know have dripped from other people’s suits since the floor was last mopped. There are a couple of girls in each of the first two locker bays, but it’s pretty quiet in here so far. It’s nice to be ahead of the rush. Once I reach my locker I immediately don flip-flops, gingerly balancing on one and then the other as I change. I’ll shower later, in the privacy and cleanliness of home.
I’m just finishing up, shoving towel, suit, cap and goggles into my duffle bag, when I catch sight of Steph. She’s standing a few feet away at the mirrors, drying her hair. Even removed from the prospect of male admirers she seems posed, back arched just right, head to one side, long hair finally free of a swim-cap and blowing artfully about her face. This could be a magazine photo shoot. Except that what I notice most, more than any detail of her posture, is the fact that Steph is staring at me in the mirror. A solid, unapologetic, absolutely-positively intense stare.
I meet her reflected gaze and Steph notices that I have noticed. She speaks to me then, or rather to my reflection in the mirror before her. “You really don’t enjoy this, do you?”
I’m taken aback, both by her scrutiny and her question. “Don’t enjoy what?”
“This; all of it.” Turning to face me, Steph clarifies, “Swimming, competing…maybe even being in the water. You just don’t seem to like it.”
I can feel various answers bubbling up on my tongue like the fizz of carbonation, pressing against the back of my teeth as they vie for release. My brain scrambles to process all of them, everything from denial – “Why would you think that?” or maybe the stronger “Don’t be silly, of course I do” – to fighting back with “You’re just jealous that you can’t match my times.”
But I don’t voice any of my immediate reactions. Instead, I stay quiet for a moment and actually think about what Steph has said.
I am stunned to recognize that she is right. The realization hits with enough mental force that it feels almost physical and I sway as if pushed, gently bumping the locker door with my left shoulder. I don’t like anything about swimming. Despite countless hours spent at the pool training, despite strong commitment and considerable success at the sport, I genuinely dislike swimming. Quite intensely, in fact.
Something in my face causes Steph to back off. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it,” she stammers. “Just an observation…”
I wave her off, not wanting to be distracted from the thoughts she has triggered. Absently swinging my bag onto my shoulder, I head not toward the parking lot to meet my dad, but instead back out to the pool.
The chlorine smell doesn’t register this time, nor does the commotion of the final heats of the swim meet. I focus solely on the water, rippling across virtually the entire length and width of this vast room. Water. Tranquil and soothing? Maybe. Dangerous, even lethal? No question. I can’t trust it or forgive it, can’t relax around it, can never enjoy it. How could I not have understood that before now?
As I stare at the water, my peripheral vision shimmers. Deck tiles morph into a sandy shoreline, stands full of cheering fans become wind-blown trees. The only constant is the water. Beautiful. Menacing.
“You can’t beat me,” I mutter. For the first time, I believe it.
My right hand rises without any conscious intent from me, responding to the almost-wave of the woman disappearing beneath the water’s surface. Then I turn.
I’ve finally reached the shore. And sometimes, leaving isn’t running away. Sometimes it’s just moving on.
Life-Affirming Birth
By Earlene Worrall
Learning of my brother’s suicide triggered labour with my second baby. Only a few hours after my parents conveyed the tragic news, my water broke. Perhaps the breaking of the amniotic sac was my body’s response to the shock, as I was not in active labour. I felt utterly overwhelmed with grief and unable to face labour and birth on that day, much as I was looking forward to meeting my son. I remember wishing that the doctor would just anaesthetize me and deliver my baby by C-section.
Of course, that was not to be, and it turned out that giving birth was probably the best thing I could have experienced at that bleak time of my life. I needed some magic to counteract the despair. After all, nothing provides a more positive affirmation of life than birth.
Bolstered by memories of a positive birth experience with my first baby, I was eventually able to focus on what was about to happen. The obstetrician waited 11 hours for contractions to begin, then administered an oxytocin drip to stimulate labour. My doctor told me it was important that I deliver within 24 hours, since the break in the amniotic sac increased my risk of infection. As soon as the drip was started, the contractions were fast and furious, and less than two hours later I was beginning to push. The top of the bed was elevated, so that I was almost sitting. When the baby’s head emerged, I was completely caught up in the moment and leaned forward, trying to see. The shoulders quickly followed. The obstetrician invited me to grasp my baby under his arms and pull him up onto my stomach. Anyone who has delivered knows that the head is the challenge, then the rest of the body emerges quite easily. So I combined a last push with a firm grasp around my baby’s tiny body. His hips and legs slithered out and there he was, absolutely perfect!
What started out as the worst day of my life morphed into a pretty incredible birth experience. Make no mistake, it was still the worst day of my life… but also one of the best. Fortunately, my son, Jake, was born shortly after midnight, so his birthday does not coincide exactly with the date of Brent’s death. It’s nice to have that slight separation, but of course the two events are inextricably linked. I tell Jake that his birth was extra special, because he helped me through a very bad time. That seems to please him.
Eight years later, I still think of my brother every day. I also see aspects of him in my son. Jake has Brent’s gentle nature and sensitivity. There is also some physical resemblance, particularly his thick, wavy hair and striking eyes.
I’m glad that I did not avoid the birth experience that day. Giving birth is not easy, but it is undeniably magical. There is no doubt that the euphoria of my son’s safe arrival helped to offset my profound grief. That combination of joy and intense love was, and still is, the perfect antidote to despair.
Reflections at Bon Echo Rock
By Earlene Worrall
Gazing at Bon Echo Rock,
Both humbled and awed by its majestic beauty
Towering a hundred metres above my solitary kayak.
Somehow the Rock avoids the oppressiveness
Of more accustomed skyscrapers.
I do not feel hemmed in, but rather elevated—
My gaze drawn up by the complex beauty
Of the irregular rock face,
Mottled salmon and grey striations
On proud display in the sunlight.
Gaze inevitably drawn down also
Into invisible, almost incomprehensible depths
Lurking beneath my bow.
The Rock commands attention…
Natural beauty taken to an extreme.
With admiration comes awareness
Of our own insignificance.
Who are we really,
And what lasting impact do we have?
Such temporary creatures we are,
Impermanence markedly evident
In contrast to this imposing Rock.
Even the vegetation claims superiority;
Thousand-year-old white cedars
Tenaciously clinging to its face,
Roots holding to virtually nothing
Decade after decade,
Century after century—
Both hardier and longer-lived
Than we can even dream.
Humankind,
That most self-deluding of species.
We think ourselves in charge,
Masters of our world.
Yet faced with the wondrous Rock
We’re forced to reconsider.
It puts us in our place.
Our struggles mean so little
In the grand scheme of things.
So we come here to pay homage
To the power of nature,
As other cultures and generations
Have done before us.
Their pictographs provide evidence
Of their worshipful devotion
While reminding us:
The Rock will be here
Long after we, too, are gone.
We recognize our insignificance
As we recognize its grandeur.
It’s a tough message to receive
But also welcome…
We’ll be back next year.
April 15th, 2010 at 4:51 pm
Hi Earlene, I’m taking time this evening to read something from everyone who has submitted to our MVWG website. Your work is evocative, because of course it comes from the seat of our emotions, the heart. I loved the swimming piece and am not surprised it won you a prize. It was well deserved, and very courageous of you to write about things most near to you. It takes a lot of guts to expose oneself and you do it with finesse. You have enriched my evening, and I thank you. Sincerely, Betty