Secrets of The Swimming Hole

Friends, families and strangers share the joy of finding the perfect freshwater swimming spot.

Photos by Christian Johnston

Into the woods behind a village, or down the rocks over a guardrail: neither hospitable nor inhospitable, the swimming hole persists. We come for adventure or to cool off at the end of our workday, on a day off, after school or on weekends. We encounter mosquitoes, poison ivy, burrs stuck in our shirts and towels—plump green broaches. We ferry their seeds before unhooking them from our clothing and then from the skin of our fingers. Our stubbed toes bleed. We twist our ankles, cut our shins.

A swimmer reaches into the transparent, quick water and plucks a gold wedding ring from between two stones. A teen on a rock ledge lifts a pant leg and bares a knife-handle in the cuff of a dirty sock. We walk over mud, gravel, leaves. We pass tangles of roots, yellow water irises, aquatic worms. We leave footprints, trash, our precious belongings. We will come again on the next hot day, seeking our common and different pleasures.

All photos in this series were taken in a…