Hugh Reilly: Bringing new meaning to the term sink school

Should the local authority pull the plug on its costly aqua-estate portfolio, it will bring some measure of closure to those Fifers who endured the harrowing experience of a school swimming pool. Alas, as a Glaswegian, I will still have to live with my dark memories.

The physical scars left on my shivering torso by a school bully using his wet bath towel as a bullwhip may have healed but mentally the suffering does not cease. From time to time, I startle my partner by awakening from a flashback nightmare and screaming: “I cannae swim! Don’t throw me in the deep end!”

Sadly, my PE teacher never listened to my desperate plea. In his sink-or-swim world, a near drowning experience was character-building for the spluttering individual concerned. Stating, as I once did, that if God had meant humans to swim he would have given us gills merely succeeded in exciting his already smouldering ire.

To be fair, he could be merciful on the odd occasion. Rather than have non-swimmers thrash for survival at the Marianna Trench end, he would hand out humiliating polystyrene floats. Worryingly, a few of these swimming aids bore bite marks. There were only two feasible explanations: a) a starving child had skipped breakfast and forgotten his packed lunch or, much more likely, b) a kid had chewed on the plastic foam in the forlorn hope it would give him the required buoyancy to keep his head above water.

Despite the overwhelming stench of chlorine and the pool being cleaned at least once a year, the water maintained a rather disconcerting opaque appearance. Admittedly, the cloudiness meant that we could not see the sodden elastoplasts, long hairs and other assorted jetsam that lurked below the surface.

Looking back, I often wonder if we were used as part of a biological weapons experiment, that somewhere in the leafy suburbs there existed a control group of kids splashing about in a pristine pool. My drillie insisted boys with hair length that touched their shirt collar wear a bathing cap. To say this headgear was snug-fitting would be something of an understatement; when enclosed over the scalp, all blood flow to the brain was cut off. Between fainting fits, catching a glimpse of oneself in a mirror was horrifying, staring at a victim of what appeared to be premature male-pattern baldness.

The breaststroke was the default swimming style for beginners. Mastering it was simplicity itself, we were told. Walking on water seemed easier to me. Nevertheless, after several practice strokes on dry land, we were deemed ready to be launched. Soon, I and the other tadpoles were making our way up the pool, albeit underwater. They say your life flashes before you when you are drowning; thanks to my regular school swimming lessons, I was getting weekly visual updates on the story of my existence.

Naively, I thought things couldn’t become any worse. This illusion was shattered the day it was decided that my class be taught how to dive. Logic dictated that non-swimmers should have been excused from this activity but our ex-army PE instructor possessed no concept of reason. Hence, I stood crouching with the others at the water’s edge. While they feared doing a painful belly flop, I feared an aching interface with the tiles at the bottom of the pool. A kind pal loaned me his goggles – at least I would see the tiles hurtling towards me before I passed out.

These days, only a tiny minority of schools have swimming pools. In these establishments it is often the case that pupils concoct tales to avoid immersion. Little mermaids don’t want their straightened locks or expensive human-hair extensions ruined by a quick dip. Boys peacocking with their gell-filled coiffures have no inclination to clamber into swimwear.

There is a low-cost solution to Fife Council’s problem. Scattered around the East Neuk coastline, there are disused alfresco seawater pools just waiting to be renovated. In an environment containing crabs, kids being taught to swim would have greater motivation than I had to stay afloat. The health benefits of breathing in bracing North Sea air while standing in wet trunks are well understood.

I’d go as far as to say it’s character-building.