swim free indeed

a bit of backstroke of bad luck

During the first few days of summer when I was eight years old, my parents made the generational mistake of signing me up to be a member of a neighborhood competitive swim team whose season had started about two weeks earlier.  

They made this decision based on the advice from my exhausted second-grade teacher who recommended to them during our fairly contentious end-of-school-year meeting that I was “The type of child who needed to remain busy in order to keep me out of trouble."

My dad asked my teacher if she had any activities in mind that could keep me occupied over the summer months.

"Something with structure, maybe a junior ROTC program?" she offered.

If my life were a sitcom -  this is where the laugh track would have exploded.  My mom rolled her eyes so loudly at her suggestion that I could hear her pupils scrape against her brain like jam on burnt toast.  

"Uh, I don't think John is cut out for that sort of thing," my dad replied truthfully.  It was one of the only times in my life that I felt truly seen by my father.  

This had not been my first run-in with school officials during my brief time as an inmate in the educational system.  For months earlier, my parents had, from time to time,  left Military Boarding School pamphlets all over the house for me to discover as a way of subtly threatening me to shape up without ever having to say it out loud.  However, even at a young age, I knew that they were bluffing.  They were extraordinarily frugal with their money - and the idea of paying large sums of money to get me to march in a line and to finally learn to tie my shoes would have been beyond their moral capabilities.  

"Well, whatever you find for John, make sure he stays very busy this summer. Busier, the better..." my teacher's voice trailed off, like she was one of those old gas station attendants in a bad horror movie who was warning a slew of college kids to not visit the nearby abandoned campground called "Axe Murderer Lake."

So, despite being born with exactly zero athletic abilities, my mom and dad decided I should be enrolled into the kind of sadistic sport that requires participants to repeatedly confront the natural human fear of drowning. They made the kind of choice that comes from the long-held tradition of parental overreactions. 

During our short-lived, yet, feisty negotiations, I did my best to convince them that this decision would not unfairly limit my plan of spending my entire summer watching MTV but that it would also open up their legal liability due to the fact that I wasn’t much of a swimmer.

"I can't swim!" I pleaded with my dad.

"Well then, I guess you'll sure as hell learn how to float," he replied with the cool tone of a sociopath who later in life became a combat instructor for a secret branch of the Marines. 

On the first day of swim team practice, my ridiculously intense swim coach (who seemed to like children as much as a rabid badger would enjoy a long warm hug)  gave me a racing Speedo swimsuit to wear.  He issued me the smallest size they had in their inventory.  It should be noted that at that point in my life, my body continued to be shaped like a tribute to the smallest piece of asparagus on a dinner plate.  The Speedo fit around my form like an elementary school gym class Hulu Hoop. Apparently, these racing suits were made for people who had an actual butt or some hips to cling to -  of which, I had neither.  

I was told that we should only wear the Speedo during actual races because it was our "war armor".  

Um. What?  Who are we at war with?  Charlie the Sun-kissed Tuna?  Aquaman?  A group of thugs from Atlantis?

It was clear from the onset, that my new coach and I held two completely separate perspectives when it came to swimming competitions. He viewed them as an ancient blood-feud battle between aquatic adversaries - where I thought of them as a chance to be pulled from the water and resuscitated by medical personnel in front of my friends and family. 

During our first encounter, my coach bent down and put his hands on my shoulders and offered: "Our first swim meet is one week away.  Time to dedicate your mind to being a champion."  

My eyes began to immediately water due to a mixture of my growing anxiety over this situation I found myself in and the unfortunate bouquet of chlorine and tobacco wafting off of his comically overstated bushy mustache.   

One week to be a champion?  There was no way I could possibly be ready to swim in a race in just a single week.  Where was the ramp-up process?  Do people climb Everest with just a few days' notice?  Astronauts spend years preparing to flirt with the atmosphere.  There were a lot of things that I needed to do before racing another kid.  Including contacting a probate lawyer to help me plan how I wanted my estate of comic books, and my Caste Greskull distributed to my beneficiaries.  In fact, I hadn't even had time at this point to have notified the Department of Family Services to start their investigation into my parents for forcing me to be tortured like this.    

A week?!  My God.  

And of course, I would need at least a month of working on my tan before being seen in this Speedo.  I looked like a vampire who rolled around in whitening toothpaste.  My skin was paler than the lovechild of baking soda and cottage cheese. 

I remember attempting to protest my inclusion in the upcoming swim meet by telling my coach that there was no way I would be prepared to race in that amount of time.  

"Do you know how you get ready?" he asked.

I shrugged.

"By getting ready," he answered his own question like a self-proclaimed Zen Master who just snorted a line of cocaine. 

The next day at practice things got worse.  

I discovered that I was scheduled to race in the backstroke - which now, after years of therapy, seems to be the genesis of all of my anxiety issues.  Turns out, the backstroke requires a bit more use of complex motor skills than the other swimming events. The backstroke demands the swimmer to throw their arms behind their heads repeatedly in a manner that should only be reserved for people who are possessed by an ancient demon or a form of dancing that is only for the triple-jointed. 

Once again, being the mediator I thought I was,  I attempted to reason with my coach. I informed him that I would be more than happy to be included in any openings he had in the "doggie paddle" division.  He advised that since I was late to join the team I had to be in backstroke because the other events had been claimed by the swimmers who had signed up long before me.  The backstroke was the last stroke of choice for my fellow teammates and it was where my coach needed all the late-registered swimmers to be.  

"You know how you learn the backstroke?"  he asked.

I shrugged and then immediately wished I hadn’t - because I knew exactly what was coming.  

"You learn the backstroke by learning the backstroke."

It was then that I wished my parents had considered just enrolling me in military school.  

For the next several practices things went just as comically terrible for me as you would imagine. My penguin-length arms/fins couldn't ever get the hang of the function of stretching behind my head to push me forward.  Most of the time I would just kind of move in circles.  I looked like a synchronized swimmer who was performing to the music of a psychedelic garage band. I  appeared as comfortable in the water as a chicken giving a keynote on intermittent fasting in front of an audience of foxes.   

It didn't take long for the head coach of our swimming team to notice that I had not dedicated my mind to being "a champion" and he stopped giving me actual advice on how to swim.  Which was fine, because his cookie-cutter advice was always frustratingly the same:  

"Want to learn how to _____?   You just have to learn how to _______ it.

It was clear to me that the student would have to become his own teacher in this case.  Which, of course, was never going to happen.  This student only wanted to teach himself how to play the Legend of Zelda.  

To make matters worse, every time I attempted the backstroke I would end up ingesting more pool water than I was sure the Surgeon General would be comfortable with.  I came home from my practices with so many swimming pool chemicals up my nose that my sinuses began to smell like a janitor's mop. 

On the day of the swim meet, I was approached by one of the young assistant coaches who could see that I was easily one of the worst swimmers she had ever encountered in her life. She pulled me out of the water and sat me down on one of those skin-peeling plastic swimming pool deck chairs to offer me some very well-intended advice.

At the time I attributed her kindness to her just being one of those sweet souls that we bump into from time to time.  I thought of her as an angel wearing human skin.  However, now that I’m a cynical adult, I see what she was doing was simply just covering her own legal liability in the likely event I didn’t survive my first race.  The odds makers had that at less than 50/50.

"You seem to be struggling a little," she offered gently.

A little?  That's like saying it looks like you are a "little" pregnant or I couldn't help but notice you have a "little bullet wound in coming out of your throat."  

I don't exactly remember how I responded to her astute observation of my lack of swimming ability. I imagine, whatever I said in reply was laced with all of the unrestrained energy of "duh" that I could muster.  

"Don't worry about any of it. The backstroke is really hard," the kind lady admitted to me.

I recall being very grateful she spoke the truth about this perverse style of swimming.

RANT:

Look, folks, the backstroke is hard.  In fact, let me go a couple of steps further than that.   The backstroke is an asinine swim stroke,   To this day, I still can find the purpose of why we even continue to teach it. It feels like it came from the middle ages as a way of torturing jesters who got caught flirting with a princess.   

I mean, if you are trying to race to shore before a hungry shark eats your toes are you going to roll over on your back and start throwing your arms up behind your head?  Hell no!  You are going to swim the way that God and Darwin intended - on your stomach!  Can you think of any mammal that escapes a predator while on its back?  

RANT OVER

I told the assistant coach that I wasn't sure I would be able to finish the race since I hadn't been able to actually accomplish that task in any of my other practice attempts.  No matter how hard I thrashed around my penguin arms would get too tired and I would have to stop and send an apology letter to my rotator cuffs. 

"Oh sweetheart," she began.  "If you get tired, just stop swimming for a bit.  Rest on your back and float while you catch your breath and let your arms rest. It will be totally okay if you take a little break - just don't give up. Keep going Swim free! Swim free!"

She then gave me a quick hug and floated away on a cloud like the mystic fairy that she apparently was. 

Her words were the exact TED Talk my fretting eight-year-old heart needed to hear at that moment.   I especially loved her advice to "swim free". With a much lighter heart, I jumped into the pool to continue my training.

It turned out that my assistant coach gave the exact words I needed. During the practice immediately after her encouragement I was fully locked in. I had somehow managed to flay and contorted my body 25 meters down to the wall at the end of the pool.  

I should also mention that I stopped my abstract interpretation of the backstroke several times during that record-setting attempt in order to hold on to the floating buoys that marked the lane lines so I could spit out the several dozen ounces of pool water that had pooled in my lungs.  It should also be noted that the only reason I knew that I had made it to the 25-meter wall was the moment when the top of my head cracked up against it.   

Although my body was exhausted and I was likely suffering from a concussion, I raised my hands out of the water in triumph.  I had made it down the lane the entire 25 meters without quitting or flirting with drowning.  

In that moment I thoughtfully considered the remarkable idea that I perhaps was finally developing a mindset of a champion.

"That's only halfway!  Quit celebrating!" my party-pooping head coach shouted from across the pool.  

Ok - maybe not.  

"And that took you ten minutes," he said coldly.

"That's it?" I exclaimed.  Honestly surprised that a couple of days hadn't passed by as I was splashing my way down the lane line.

I heard him grunt as he cast his frumpy gaze on some other poor unsuspecting tadpole. Apparently he hadn’t gotten the same “swim free” pep-talk I had just received.

My confidence for competitive swimming peaked the next morning as I strutted into the locker room to change into the loose-fitting "war armor" I was issued for my upcoming race.  

The Speedo came equipped with a drawstring that I gathered was meant for me somehow tie up go help tighten it on my body.  I remember working on fastening it up - but knots have never my thing.  I was a believer in the "good enough" philosophy when it come to tying my shoes, which often meant my laces would become completely undone within twenty-five seconds of me trying to fasten them. 

I recall coming out of the changing room with my bright green Speedo splashing subtly across the members-only section of my small frame and immediately bumping into my parents who had made the effort to come and watch me publicly humiliate myself.  Right away, I could tell by the expression on my parent faces that did not realize that I would be wearing such a small swimsuit to cover my pre-pubescent nether nellies.  

"Oh God." my mom stated in her trademarked tone of horror.  "Where is the rest of your suit?"

"This is it," I replied while placing my hobbit hands on my hobbit hips.

Oh God..." she repeated.  

My dad didn't say much about my aquatic athletic wear.  He didn't need to as the smirk forming on the tent pole edges of his lips said it all.

"Well, this should be interesting," he remarked.  

It was then that I heard a voice announce through the intercom announce that it was time for me to go line up for my race.  

"Good luck..." my mom said weakly as she gave my Speedo another quick glance with her ever-widening eyes.

"Good luck to all of us," my dad sincerely offered.  

I gave my father a quick (and strange) little military salute and waddled my way over to the north side of the pool where my race would begin.  Maybe it was the words of the angelic assistant swim coach or maybe it was all of the Tangy Taffy I had crammed down my maw a few moments earlier - but I was suddenly feeling very confident of my chances  No, not that I thought I would take first place in my backstroke heat, but instead strangely I seemed to fancy my ability to actually finish the 50-meter race without having to be rescued from the water by a nearby adult - which wasn’t a feat I had yet accomplished during my five days of practice leading up to race day.   

I walked over to the edge of the pool with the other backstroke swimmers to wait for the volunteer parent (who had to have been day drinking) to give us the all-clear to jump into the water.  The only saving grace that I had been holding onto all week was that I had been put in the "turtle" heat of the backstroke.  This meant that I would be swimming against other brand-new racers. We were a collection of the slowest of the slow swimmers. 

I took a quick inventory of my competition.  They looked just like me.  Wide-eyed and terrified.  Wondering how in the holy hell they had allowed their parents to talk them into this situation.  We all made eye contact while offering a quick nod of support to each other. The five of us were like ancient gladiators who were being forced to maul each other in front of a crowd of slack-jawed elitist Romans.  

I then noticed I was the only participant in the Turtle Group backstroke who was wearing a racing Speedo.  Every other turtle was in a standard-issue bathing suit one would wear for a day of floating and sunning.  This was my first lesson in what being embarrassed felt like - and it was a masterclass.  At best, I looked like a try-hard swimmer who had intentionally put themselves in a slower heat in order to destroy the competition.  At worst, I looked like I was a member of the "Future Strippers of America Society" (FASS). This revelation that I was the only swimmer whose coach gave him a thin piece of fabric to race in caused my little heart to start to flutter like a hummingbird on Adderal. 

I could feel a band of rage start to rise up in me that was directed toward my former second-grade teacher who was the spark that got this wildfire of shame started with her passing comment that "I needed to be busy". I had no doubt she was sitting at home, with a gin and tonic in her hands, giggling at the thought of what destruction she had wrought on me. 

Yes, I drove her crazy for the previous seven months, but her revenge was sadistic.

I frantically scanned the crowd of on-looking parents for my mom and dad. After a moment, I saw my mom whose face still wore the same expression that she made when she saw my Speedo.  

It was an expression of horror and regret that only comes when a mother witnesses her son nearly nude in front of an audience.  At worst, I looked like I was a member of the "Future Strippers of America Society" (FASS). This revelation that I was the only swimmer whose coach gave him a thin piece of fabric to race in caused my little heart to start to flutter like a hummingbird on Adderal. 

I could feel a band of rage start to rise up in me that was directed toward my former second-grade teacher who was the spark that got this wildfire of shame started with her passing comment that "I needed to be busy". I had no doubt she was sitting at home with a gin and tonic in her hands giggling at the thought of what destruction she had wrought on me.  Yes, I drove her crazy for the previous seven months, but her revenge was sadistic.

I frantically scanned the crowd of on-looking parents for my mom and dad. After a moment, I saw my mom whose face still wore the same expression that she made when she saw my Speedo.  

It was an expression of horror and regret that only comes when a mother witnesses her son nearly nude in front of an audience.  I have no doubt in her mind that she was already considering the idea that she had opened up the door for me to a future life of being a male gigolo. Her imagination telling her that I would spend my adult years being booked for bachelorette parties for those folks who have fetishes for people who looked like they lived in the Shire.  

My nerves started to grow and grow.  I could feel the weight of impending doom start to crush me.  

That was when I heard the sweet voice of my favorite angel rise up above the murmuring of the crowd. "Swim free! Swim free!" my saintly assistant coach shouted to me from the other end of the racing lane down at the end of the pool in front of me.  

"You got this!  Swim free!"

With that, my heart settled and my mind cleared.  I channeled all of my favorite network TV characters who I had watched face and overcome their biggest fears and obstacles every night.  If Captain Stubening of the USS Love Boat could move past the grief of his late wife, surely I could complete and possibly win this 50-meter backstroke.  After all, I was the only kid wearing a professional racing suit.  I might be a turtle - but I was probably going to be the fasted damn turtle anyone has ever seen before.  

My nerves started to grow and grow.  I could feel the weight of impending doom start to crush me.  

That was when I heard the sweet voice of my favorite angel rise up above the murmuring of the crowd. "Swim free! Swim free!" my saintly assistant coach shouted to me from the other end of the racing lane down at the end of the pool in front of me.  

"You got this!  Swim free!"

With that, my heart settled and my mind cleared.  I channeled all of my favorite network TV characters who I had watched face and overcome their biggest fears and obstacles every night.  If Captain Stubening of the USS Love Boat could move past the grief of his late wife, surely I could complete and possibly win this 50-meter backstroke.  After all, I was the only kid wearing a professional racing suit.  I might be a turtle - but I was probably going to be the fasted damn turtle anyone has ever seen before.  

When the parent volunteer blew the whistle to signify that it was time for me to jump into the water and get ready to start the race, my confidence was at an all-time high.  

With the mindset of a champion, I put my new mantra on a high-speed loop in the echo chamber inside of me:  

Swim free  

Swim free

Swim free

Then the whistle blew - and the race began. 

I lurched off of the wall with what I felt like was the power of a launched high-speed torpedo. The next moments passed by like one of those crazy dreams that comes right after a late night binge at a Taco Bell.

Between the muffled yelling from the onlooking parents, the wall of chemically-treated water making out with my nasal cavities and the alien-green view of the world my face-sucking googles were giving me, I was having a bit of an out-of-body experience.

It was all so surreal.

The one thing I could be sure of was the sound of my mom screaming “Joooooohhhhhnnnnnn.” at the top of her lungs.

“Gooooooooo Joooooooohhhhhnnnnnn.”

Dang, she was really into this race. I could feel this brand new desire to make my parents proud wash over me.

I started kicking even harder.

Swim Free.

Swim Free.

Swim Free.

I can’t imagine what this scene looked like from the outside of the pool. Five non-swimmers all contorting and wildly splashing their crooked way down the pool against each other. I have no doubt that anyone with a seizure condition had to avert their eyes.

As the race progressed I started to notice that I was “swimming” faster than ever before. My arms and legs were in full swing, no slowing down."

I was, in fact, SWIMMING FREE.

“Jooooooooooooooooohhhhhhnnnn Goooooooo!!” my mom kept screaming.

I’m going, mom. I’m going.

Yes, I was exhausted and tired but for the first time ever I didn’t feel like stopping. It was my first experience of having a natural shot of adrenaline rush through me - and I kind of liked it.

I still couldn’t quite tell how far I had gone

Suddenly, I felt it. The familiar sensation of the top of my head smacking itself against the unforgiving pool wall at the end of the lane. The sharp crack against my skull signaled that I had reached the halfway point."

As I flipped over to kick myself off of the wall I took a quick survey of where my competitors were. To my shock, they were far far behind me.

I was winning this race!

I heard the crowd yelling my name as I kicked off again for the final 25 meters of my epic initial competitive swimming event.

“Jooooooooooooohhhhhhnnnn you’ve got this!” I think I heard my mom screaming at me as she rushed toward the side of the pool to obviously try and hug me.

“There is no time for that, mom,” I thought. “I’ve got a mindset of a champion. I’ve got a race to win. I’ve got to…

Swim Free.

Swim Free.

Swim Free.”

The last 25 meters was a blur. I could feel my lungs burning and as my little legs and arms started to turn into melted jello. There were so many times I wanted to stop - but I couldn’t. I wanted to prove something to myself - and my ridiculous head coach, and my parents, and my teacher who smugly thought she had ruined my summer. With each stroke I made the contest started taking on more and more significance. This race wasn’t just for me. It was for world peace. It was the most important event in the world.

Swim Free.

Swim Free.

Swim Free.

The crowd kept screaming my name as I pounded my way down to the finish line. This is what it must feel like to be a hero,” I thought.

My backstroke race ended with my trademarked crashing headfirst into the end of the pool. I spun around and saw that I had win the race by a large margin. Despite being utterly spent I started to splash around and celebrate as was my right. I had climbed my Everest. I had slayed the dragon.

As I climbed out of the pool I could hear the screams of my name grow louder and louder. I really was the people’ champ. Everyone was going crazy. I remember thinking it was strange that I was seeing parents covering their children’s eyes as I raised my hands up like an Olympian. Perhaps this whole moment was too overwhelming for young ones.

I stood up on the deck of the pool and tried to make eye-contact with all the adults that I needed to get some prideful recognition from. My head couch was nowhere to be seen. My dad had his head in his hands - obviously overcome with emotion. My mom was standing at the edge of the pool with an expression I had never seen on her face before. I assumed it was pride. Her right pointer finger was jabbing toward me frantically as she kept screaming.

“Joooooooohhhhnnnn goooooooooo!”

Easy mom. The race is over.

Wait, as the water in my ears began to drain, I could hear more clearly."

Was that what she was saying?

It wasn’t “Jooooohhhnnnn Gooooooo!”

It was actually:

“Jooooooohhhhnnnn NOOOOOOOOOO”

Suddenly, I noticed my sweet assistant coach running toward me with a towel in her hands. What is going on.

I looked at my mom again. The look on her face wasn’t pride. It was horror. I followed the invisible line of her pointing finger to see my Speedo floating in the pool in front of me- roughly right where I first kicked off the race.

I looked down at my body to notice that I was utterly nude. Apparently, my ability to tie my swim suit was just as effective as when I tie my shoelaces.

As the crowd, my coaches, my fellow turtles and my parents continued to react in abject terror for what was unfolding right in front of them I lowered my hands to cover up.

Swim Free?

Mission accomplished.

---

For more information on my books or upcoming writing retreats please visit my sleek little website right here.