I shivered as I stood by the side of the pool, waiting for my heat in the 200 meter freestyle race. My first race. This was my very first swim meet since joining the Springville Seals swim team. The summer after 8th grade, I had been inspired to try competitive swimming by the stories of my many family members who were great swimmers. My grandma was a state champion in backstroke, and her brother could have been a world champion swimmer, but he switched to diving and went on to the Olympics. I figured I must have some pretty good swimming genes in me. I wasn't the most athletic, but I loved to swim, and I had taken swimming lessons my whole life, which made the swim team the obvious choice for a sport.
When I heard, "Swimmers, take your mark," I stepped up to the starting block and pulled on my goggles, my mind calm, my breathing steady. I knew that I probably wouldn't come in first, but that didn't bother me. I knew that how well I did would reflect how much training I had done. I was only a beginner, but at every practice I had done very well, always keeping up, and sometimes waiting impatiently for slower swimmers ahead of me as we swam lap after lap. I felt well prepared. I was focused, serene, and it was as though I could feel every stroke I had ever done imprinted into my muscles, the pattern of movement memorized by each body part. The echoing of every voice and splash in that indoor pool faded into the background as I knelt down and stared into the water below. I imagined how I would slice into the water on impact, creating as little resistance as possible. I continued to breathe deeply and my surroundings dissolved, leaving just me and the water.
I barely heard the whistle blow, but my body was ready to go. My fingers let go of the edge of the block, and my legs kicked off. In that split second where I was airborne, I pulled my arms straight in front of me, overlapping my hands, and dived into the water. I propelled myself to the surface and pulled my arm up out of the water. The movements were automatic; stroke, turn, breathe, kick, stroke, turn, breathe, kick. As I turned my head to breathe, I glimpsed the other swimmers, neck and neck with me. I knew I was doing well, and might have a chance of actually coming in first. I pushed myself a little harder, and pulled ahead slightly.
As I started into my second lap, that's when it happened. My chest suddenly tightened, and as I tried to breathe I sucked in water and began to choke, my throat burning from chlorine and physical exertion. I tried to compose myself and push onward, but I had upset my rhythm, my limbs flailing awkwardly for a moment. When I finally righted myself, the other swimmers were far ahead of me. I continued forward, determined not to come in last, but it was no use. My lungs burned and heaved, making me gasp for breath when I turned my head. I got more water in my mouth and had to spit it back out when my face went underwater again. My body felt heavy, as if I were wearing a thick, wet sweater, and I slowed way down. I realized that I still had two laps to go and my heart sank. I knew that no matter what, I was going to look pathetic, but if I could just finish, that would at least be something.
The other swimmers finished and climbed out of the pool, and there I was, half drowning as I struggled through each stroke and excruciating breath. My goggles had slipped a bit and water was seeping into my eyes. My head spun from lack of oxygen and I imagined myself sinking down to the bottom of the pool where I could slip into peaceful oblivion. But I forced my muscles not to relax until I finally finished and pulled myself out of the pool with shaking arms. I didn't let myself look at anyone. I just stumbled into the locker room, wrapped myself in a towel, and sobbed in disappointment and relief. That was the end of swim team for me.
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