A swimming pool in the 2008 Olympic ‘Water Cube’, complete with a fence between the shallow and deep lanes.
A little while ago I decided to try out the swimming pool at my Chinese university.
The pool had two sections: 3 lanes of waist-deep water and 6 lanes about 1.9 metres deep. The lanes were divided by a large fence, so you could not move between the shallow and deep ends.
The shallow lanes were full of swimmers, all swimming a very slow breast-stroke. The deep lanes were almost empty.
While I’m no Olympian, I’m also no stranger to swimming – last year I completed a half Ironman and swam 3.6 km around the Busselton Jetty (yes, that’s some shameless self-promotion).
When I went to enter the deep lanes, a lifeguard blocked me, said something in Chinese and pointed at the shallow lanes. There was no hope of arguing with my lack of Chinese language skills, so I found myself joining the convoy of slow swimmers. Whenever there was any space ahead of me, I would burst out a few fast strokes, hoping one of the lifeguards would realise I wasn’t about to drown and moved me into the deep lanes.
Eventually, I found a swimmer spoke some English and she explained that I needed a ‘deep water certificate’ to enter the deep end of any public pool in Beijing. To get the certificate, I need to pass a test.
The test requirements.
The gruelling test
I returned the following day, armed with a few Chinese phrases (“I want my swimming certificate”). To pass I had to swim 200 metres (4 laps) within 10 minutes.
My swim began well with a steady freestyle stroke and I easily overtook the others in my lane. But on my return leg, the lifeguard was pointing at me, saying something and directing me out of the water. My mind raced – had I failed?
Then confusion ensued – it turns out repeatedly saying in broken Chinese “I want my swimming certificate” can only get you so far. After several minutes of pointing and miming, I worked out that he wanted me to wear a swim cap. I went to restart the test, but he instead handed me with my official certificate. He’d obviously had enough of dealing with me.
My Deep Water Certificate with my not-so-happy face.
So now I have my fancy swimming certificate, with a photo that accurately captures my mood at the time.
The scary rationale
At the time, I thought the process was ridiculous – just another instance of unnecessary bureaucracy. But there is a compelling rationale for it. Drownings in China and in Asia generally are a regular occurrence. In Beijing alone, on average one child drowns every 2 days – that’s about 182 per year!
In Asian countries, on average each year, one child dies every 45 seconds from drowning.
About 50 children drown annually in Australia. About the same number drown in every day in Bangladesh!
With so many people in China living far from the coast and the often less than ideal weather, swimming is not part of everyday life. It just isn’t part of the national psyche as it is in Australia.
If a basic swimming test is what it takes to save some lives, it’s worth inconveniencing a few foreigners.
It is reassuring to see that Australian organisations are taking steps to curve the problem. The Royal Life Saving Society runs swimming lessons and other programs in Vietnam and Bangladesh. You can check out their good work here: http://www.globaldrowningfund.org.au/