Dead But Alive

chapter seven: giving up water

The warm-up pool is packed.

Like, there are a hundred and fifty swimmers in the space of six fifty-meter lanes.

Colored caps, colored suits, boys and girls and tall swimmers and short swimmers and young swimmers and older swimmers, there is endless variety.

There's one inspiring little girl who doesn't even have full use of her legs.

Good thing I already swam my warmup yardage and don't swim for my 100 fly in an hour.

I spend the in-between time with my teammate Symon, playing Uno, eating Goldfish, and drinking Gatorade.

Then, two heats before my heat, I head to my coach for a pre-race pep talk.

"Alright, Reid," he tells me. "I want you to rein it in until the fifteen-meter mark, then you hit the gas. You do a neat turn, and you bring it home. Got that?"

"Yes sir," I say, grinning. I love the 100 fly, and I am ready to drop some time.

I stand behind lane four, bouncing up and down, swinging my arms, stretching. Trying to get the blood flowing.

And then, suddenly, I am up.

I stand by the block, breathing in, breathing out.

I can do this.

I can drop time.

I can swim fast.

"Go, Reid!" Symon cheers from behind me.

I smile.

"Swimmers behind your blocks, Mr. Referee," says the announcer.

The whistle blows.

I step up. I place my foot on the edge, curl my toes over, steady my back foot.

For Coach.

For me.

For my team.

"Take your mark," the referee says, and I bend and tense, looking back towards my knee, ready to spring.

The horn sounds.

Every muscle in my body explodes forwards. I look up, then look down and hit the water smoothly. I kick, kick, kick, and then remember to take it slow. Long and strong, until the fifteen meter mark.

So I do. I breathe every two strokes, pulling hard, kicking fast.

And then I am at the fifteen meter mark, comfortable and strong.

I start to pick it up. Breathe more often.

I don't know where my competitors are, but hopefully I am ahead. I get the feeling that I am ahead.

I swim into the wall, avoiding a breath. Don't breathe. Don't breathe. Two handed touch. You can do this.

I do. It's a pretty decent turn. I choke on water, gag and try not to die. I surface, force myself not to breathe even though there's water in my lungs and not enough air.

I try to reduce my air intake to every other, but I can't quite. It is a 100. So I breathe twice, head down once, and as I'm nearing halfway, I remember my last 100 fly, and how it didn't hurt when I got out.

That will not happen this time, I vow to myself.

I pull. I kick and I pull and I swim until my legs are burning, heavy and numb. Until my arms can't seem to hold any more water. I kick like a dolphin, faster and faster and faster. Make this hurt, Reid! Make yourself unable to get out of the pool! Almost there, almost there, but make it hurt.

And then, finally, I splash into the wall.

First.

Yess!!! I look to Coach, and he gives me a thumbs up and pumps his fist in the air. I give him a giant grin, turn to the scoreboard.

I did it!

I made a State time!!!

As I climb out of the pool, Symon gives me a high-five. "NIIICE, Reid! Good job!"

"Thanks," I say, breathless, grabbing for my towel. I talk to Coach, and he is unwilling to show much emotion. "Well done," he says seriously. "Good rhythm, good posture. We'll have to work on your breathing and your finish, but your turn was good. Don't let it get to your head, though. You have the 400 IM next. Go cool down, Ridley."

I have to laugh. That's Coach K's way of telling me he's proud. Which is all I need.

As I'm heading to the warmdown pool, something suddenly strikes me. Dr. Terrance's words: "You wouldn't miss much."

I would miss swimming.

I can't give up State.

I can't give up what's been my life since nine years old.

I can't give up water.