Part
2
Apparently I do not know how to breathe. This
is not a good thing.
As I leap
into the water and pass the woman with tattooed blue eye
shadow I notice two things. First, visually, the 50-meter
pool looks really, really long. Second, physically, my
inability to breathe as I push water aside from my body
while completing what I believe to be strokes, encourages my
mind to rest on a few expletive words that begin with F and
S. At the 25-meter mark I tell myself that swimming is not
easy and I have discovered a different level of respect for
the pros like Ryk Neethling and Michael Phelps. Before I was
a spectator; now, I have sense of the pain.
I am in pain because I cannot breath and I
remind myself this is just the warmup. A continuous 1 ˝
workout lies ahead for me, but my immediate goal is to make
it to the end of the pool, which I do. My 1:50 bout of pain
and remedial breathing brings me to the deep end and as I
hang onto the tiled edge catching my breadth I can only
think of the song “Solid” by Ashford & Simpson and the words
“Solid as a rock. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha … Solid.” Or something like
that. Although I don’t feel solid as a rock, I emit rapid
“ha’s” as my lungs begin to normalize.
OK. “Time to go back”, I tell myself as I
push off the wall and head toward shallow waters. Like in
the first lap, I try to breath about every other stroke. As
I turn my head right and left and lift my nose and mouth out
of the water I attempt to calculate my inhales and exhales.
It takes me very little time to understand that I am
calculating poorly and I wonder how the pros or even how the
woman with tattooed blue eye shadow are able to catch their
breath and then create more breath in order to push forward
into the next stroke? What I do not know is the answer.
“Swimmers, bring it in!” Coach Paul yells out
over the pool as I firmly land my feet onto the floor of the
shallow end.
Lifting my goggles from my eyes I ask “What
now?” to the twentysomething man with a goatee two lanes
over. I am personally not a fan of goatees and I think to
myself, this man looks like a prisoner in a Speedo.
“Coach Paul’s going to give the announcements
and our workout. You sound out of breath,” he says.
“Oh my gosh. Yes. It’s my first night. I’m
not used to this. I’m Keith. By the way.”
“I’m Alex. Don’t worry, the more you swim,
the easier it will become. Just do what you can and take as
much rest as you need. Coach Paul won’t mind.”
While barely managing the uncomfortable chill
of the water, my inability to breathe, my awkward strokes,
and the threat that Coach Paul might yell at me, Alex’s
point gives me great comfort. Like a barnacle on a whale, I
latch onto the idea that I can do this at my own pace and
that I can swim through this hour and a half with only
myself to answer to. Knowing this, my gut begins to feel
empowered.
The swimmers and I patiently listen to Coach
Paul’s announcements as he hovers above us on the pool deck.
He speaks of “The Prom You Never Had,” a charity function in
West Hollywood. As he continues with the other nuts and
bolts of team business, I begin to think of eating and the
endless shrimp commercial for Red Lobster. I wonder if Red
Lobster accepts Diners Club cards. I wonder how one even
gets a Diners Club card?
“Cocktailers,” Coach Paul says as he crouches
down to the decks edge and like Moonstruck, I snap out of
it. I am no longer thinking about fried shrimp. “This is
what we’re going to do. We’re going to start off with a nice
and smooth set of 100’s. What I want you to work on is your
hand entry. What you will do is when lifting your arm out of
the water, you will drag your fingertips on the surface.
This will help you understand the right motion for freestyle
strokes.”
Coach Paul is not yelling. He is not
screaming nor is he shouting. His calm words keep my
attention and his smooth instruction distracts me and I find
myself focused on swimming technique.
I watch Coach Paul mimic the movement he has
just described. This particular drill is called the
Fingertip-Drag Drill and I make sure to take note of his
hand and arm movement. I also recognize that his body
rotates back and forth with ease and that achieving that
motion will help propel me through the water. He would like
us to complete four 100-meter sets in 2 ˝ minutes, 50 meters
performing the Fingertip-Drag Drill and 50 meters easy free
with 30 of rest between each 100.
Apparently my inability to breath while
swimming is a chronic problem. As I begin, my first few
strokes performing the Fingertip-Drag Drill I am keenly
aware that I must look like the Tasmanian Devil on a
double-tall cappuccino high. Splashing water, aimless kicks,
awkward arm movements and the struggle to catch my breath
and release it all come to my immediate attention at once
and I am lost to the water; I am lost to the knowledge of
how to swim properly. As I push my body through the water,
enduring the pain of airless lungs and the pressure of heavy
water, I make it to the 25-meter mark, then to the 50-meter
mark, then I find myself completing my first full 100-meter
swim.
“Keith,” Coach Paul says as I open my mouth
as much as possible to swallow the air and fill my lungs
with normalcy. “Ye … ye … yes,” I respond trying to be
attentive and somewhat cool although I am quite certain that
my being a novice shines brightly.
“Stand up,” he says. On his command I do and
I think, here it comes, the yelling, the criticism. It
always happens to me, and here it is. “Now breath,” his calm
voice says, “it’s easier to catch your breath out of the
water.” So it is, I realize, so it is. I understand too,
that he is not yelling at me. Coach Paul is helping me.
“I’ve noticed you’re having trouble
breathing. Try inhaling when you turn your head out of the
water and then exhale underwater.”
Hmm. Coach Paul’s point makes sense. Such an
easy answer and in 10 seconds I discovered that this answer
turned my chronic problem into an empowered feeling. I felt
I could this, I feel I can combat the heavy water that
passes over my body. I feel I could manage the pain of
stressed muscles and although my lung capacity for air
control is not yet strong, I have a grasp, a fighting
chance.
After three more 100-meter swims, an eight
50-meter set, and two 200-meter sets I found myself knowing
how to breath properly while swimming laps. At the deep end
of the pool I grip the tiled edge, which the water smacks
against, and I let my hands go. My head submerges and my
body sinks. The water, now comfortable to my skin, shines
its deep blue hues from the pool’s floodlights below. Up
above the surface the night sky calls practice to a close
and those applauding hands imagined in my body, are now a
standing ovation. I have completed my first hour-and-a-half
swim workout!
Fueled by self-applause, I jerk my body into
movement and begin to swim underwater toward the shallow
end. I kick like a dolphin, spin like a whale, and
accelerate like a seal. Then, I find myself having fun. My
anxieties are left on the surface. No coach can yell at me,
no swimmer can chastise me and no spectator can scream at
me. I know all too well that this moment of freedom can only
exist as long as I can hold my breath. As a new swimmer, the
moment is short.
As the lanes lines are pulled out for the
night, I towel dry myself as quickly as possible and in a
dubious dash leave for home.
One. Two. Two days it takes me to once again
hear the words “I want to be” and to once again listen to
the voice that creates unrest and discomfort in my gut. I
know better than to ask myself why me, why expose myself to
criticism, why choose to feel those swirls, twirls, and
whirls in my gut? These questions only delay the desired
outcome; the answer already known. To win the race, I must
stay in the race. The answer -– my response to the words; to
the voice, is do it again, and again, and again. Then, I
will become.
I stand on the deck of the pool with my arms
folded and my head bowed toward the water. My thoughts are
inextricably tied to my gut and while two days ago, I was
not yelled at, I might be today. My fear begins to escalate
and I can only murmur one or two soft-spoken “hellos” to the
swimmers straggling in. I even step back from the pools deck
with the intent to wait until the very last minute to shed
my shorts and shirt in favor of my Speedo. With intent, I
will wait to dive back into the cocktail lane.
Then, he walks in.
His freckled face and almond hair beam his
Irish identity and as he removes his sunglasses, his
chocolate eyes and his pink-lipped smile melt away my
anxiety and like a switch, illuminate my own
self-confidence.
Keith Davis lives
in Los Angeles.
Oct. 19,
2005
