The Stillness of the Current

 

       

An Internal Monologue by Commander Spock

The water folds around me in a perfect, weightless symmetry. It is not unlike the vacuum of space—a medium through which resistance is met and momentum must be maintained through precision. With each stroke, I push forward, slicing through the liquid with deliberate efficiency. The rhythmic cadence of my breath, controlled and measured, ensures optimal oxygenation while maintaining my exertion at an appropriate level.

Inhale.
One, two, three, four strokes.
Exhale.

The pool is a human facility—Olympic in design, housed within an indoor structure that shields it from the environment. Chlorine lingers faintly in the air, a chemical necessity to maintain sterility, though it is not an unpleasant scent. The water is maintained at a temperature of 26 degrees Celsius, an optimal range for endurance training without unnecessary thermal dissipation. I find it... agreeable.

I shift into a different technique—the backstroke. It provides a reprieve for my anterior deltoids while maintaining cardiovascular engagement. My vision now captures the ceiling, a geometric lattice of beams and translucent panels filtering in the artificial light. There is an aesthetic symmetry to it that I acknowledge as pleasing.

Inhale.
One, two, three, four.
Exhale.

There is a peculiar tranquility in this form of exercise. Unlike combat drills or survival training, swimming necessitates a unique balance of effort and fluidity. Resistance is a constant, yet it is not something to be overcome with brute force. Rather, one must align oneself with the medium, move within it rather than against it. In this way, it is not unlike diplomacy. Or meditation.

I rotate into the butterfly stroke, engaging my core and upper body with greater intensity. The increased demand on my musculature raises my heart rate—148 beats per minute—well within an acceptable range for controlled exertion. I maintain awareness of my lactic acid threshold; should I exceed it, I will adjust my pacing accordingly. Efficiency is paramount.

The humans who frequent this facility often speak of the act of swimming as relaxing. I would not define it as such. Relaxation is an imprecise term, often misused to describe a mere reduction of tension. What I experience in the water is not relaxation, but equilibrium—the perfect union of motion and breath, of control and surrender to the currents around me. It is a rare state, one that even my Vulcan training does not often replicate.

I execute a flip turn at the wall, pushing off into a streamlined glide. My body elongates, reducing drag. In these moments of pure motion, time ceases to be a factor. There is only the next stroke, the next breath.

Inhale.
One, two, three, four.
Exhale.

Though logic dictates that I should conclude my session soon, I find that I do not wish to. The stillness of space has always been a familiar companion, but here—beneath the surface, where all sound is muffled and every movement is deliberate—I find another kind of stillness. One not of emptiness, but of balance.

It is… satisfactory.

I continue.