Will and Grace

As part of my current efforts to be my healthiest self, I've gone to swimming laps in the morning. I get up at 6AM each morning and ride with my husband to the YMCA so I can get my swim on. Because I used to be a competitive swimmer this new venture may seem easy, but it's actually quite the opposite. It has been a LONG time since I was in competition shape. At least 12 years to be exact. So something that once came so easily is now nothing short of a pride swallowing siege.

When I was a kid and swimming competitively for several local teams, my father (who, himself was a former competitive swimmer) almost never came to my swim meets. Back then, I thought it was because he was not interested. Looking back, I realize that swim meets were some of the few occasions that my father had time at home by himself. I missed him at the meets because I was so proud of my athleticism. I swam hard, deliberately, and had no love for my competition. One summer, for unknown reasons, my father showed up at an outdoor meet. Because of his presence, I was even more amped than usual. I swam my event like a crazy person, and yanked myself out of the pool both anxious to receive my first place announcement, and even more anxious to join my father in celebration. To my dismay, I looked in the stands and saw that his response was full-on, red-faced, tear-jerking laughter. He laughed so hard he had to lean over! I knew my father loved me too much to mock my joy, so I was confused about his reaction. As I approached, he put his hand on my shoulder and caught his breath while exclaiming, "Good gracious! You have a real spider stroke on you girl! Your arms stay bent through each stroke. You barely get your arms out of the water before you're diving back in for another pull. No slice, no glide, just sheer and strong crawling!" I was both relieved and perplexed. He was right, and I knew it. I was fast - no doubt, but not because I worked on technique. I just swam like a tiger shark was on me! In fact, it was not uncommon for me to swim the length of a 25 meter pool without taking a breath. After that day I was inspired to work on my technique. If I could swim that fast without it, imagine my times with a strong even glide! I worked on it, but I stopped competing before I ever got my times to match my new technique.

This current campaign is not the first time I've attempted to use swimming as a means of getting back into shape. However, every time the same challenge has remained. My husband's skill and strength shames me. He does not have the lengthy competitive history I do, and he's been out of practice just as long as me, but I can't catch him. In my glory days I would have given him a run for his money, but no more. His stroke is strong, steady, and focused. He swims they way he drives, the way he hunts, the way he thinks, the way he makes love. Where my eyes are at the end of the pool, his are on each stroke. If my style demonstrates raw will and determination, his represents pure grace. So, my past attempts to swim with him have been short lived - ending in frustration over my efforts because of damage to my pride.

It's been 8 mornings now that we've woken up and headed out. The first few days were rough. I was physically weak and angry. We argued about nothing, and I cried in the pool. But we came back the next day. We started swimming 250 meters, and we're already up to 450. My goal is 1000 meters each morning. I gave myself a year to reach it, but if I continue the way I am, it will come much sooner. There's no pressure, but I'm excited. Keep me in your prayers, if you will. Every time you see a pool, think of me. I'm there every morning, 6AM, swimming slightly behind the graceful one, but swimming steady. And getting stronger every day.

Life Saver

My whole family swims. My dad and his brothers were competitive swimmers. To this day, people in eastern North Carolina refer to them as the Davis Water Dogs! My mother was a life guard, and my husband and I got to know each other when we were both on our high school swim team. I don't think there was a time in my life when I didn't move as well through water as I do on land. From the time I was a little girl, my parents and I would visit the coast of North Carolina. We'd get in the water and begin swimming out into the depths. Past the breakers, past the sand bar, looking back at the end of the fishing piers and people like little dots on the beach. Once we were beyond the realm of shrieking children trying to outrun the arrival of high tide and patient surfers straddling their boards, we'd just float. We'd bob up and down - riding small waves and diving into larger ones. We'd laugh and take each other in - speaking very little, but smiling a lot. Just happy to be in a place where everything that mattered was at arm's reach, and our only encumbrances were sea and sun.

One evening, when I was about 13, we stayed out later than usual - braving the deep waters off Kure Beach and watching the sunset. My mom cautioned that it was getting late and suggested we head back. She lead the way, harnessing her powerful sidestroke. My father and I followed behind, pulling against the strong current with frantic freestyles. After about 10 minutes my mom hit the shore, tired and relieved. She looked back to find that my father and I had made little progress. We'd swum out further than usual, headed back later than my mother, and it was now dark. My mom stood on the shore yelling out instructions as fervently as she could. "Swim faster! Harder! Go with the current, not against it! Try to ride out the next wave!" It was useless. The tide was coming in strong, and bringing a storm with it. You could not ride out one wave without being swept up by the next, and with the sun down you could barely see them coming. 30 minutes later my dad caught a break. The current pulled him into a wave that pulled him under, then buoyed him up within reach of the shore. I, on the other hand, began being swept down the beach faster than he could keep up with from the water, so he was forced to join my mother on the beach running along to keep me in sight. After over 45 minutes of fighting and failing, my arms felt like jelly. They just sort of buzzed numbly, and I could not even reach them above my head to stroke. I was exhausted. And now the waves were so deep that when they slammed me toward the floor of the ocean I felt no sand. I just tumbled violently - not knowing which way was up, and having to calm myself so that I would float upward rather than scrambling in the wrong direction. After swallowing a dangerous amount of water on the last dunk, I realized I may not make it back in. My dad yelled for me to keep my head up. He screamed, and my mom cried. They'd called the coast guard, but we later learned there were several drownings and near-drownings that night. I whispered to whomever might hear, "I'm done." My dad screamed, "No!" as if he could hear me. I felt neither sad nor afraid. I felt peace. Once I stopped struggling, the pain in my arms and legs quieted and my heartbeat slowed. I could hear it beating loud, slow, and reassuringly in my head. I was grateful to my parents for loving me and challenging me. I was grateful to God for my life. I was OK.

The last wave to hit me was the largest yet. I was pulled up into an awesome swell and felt myself travel for what seemed liked a whole minute before it dove hastily toward the ocean bottom. I went down fast and hard. I felt my arms and legs spread akimbo - my fingers splayed wide. When my outstretched hands were thrust into the sand, it felt as if I'd dived into a pool of living rocks. I felt no water - only hard, sharp, moving sea. And then mind numbing pain! Pain so intense that it felt heat! Like I'd been awakened from a sweet dream with scalding water. I opened my mouth to scream and threw my arms straight up above me. First I saw light. Then I felt wind, and I looked down to see myself quickly approaching a dock a few feet below me. I landed hard - so hard I pulled splinters out of my knees and palms for days after. Dizzy and confused, I looked around and over the dock into the water below. A light on the dock illuminated the water around it where hundreds of crab laid piled in moving bunches. Somehow the current led me down toward the shore, toward a small fishing dock, and slammed my hand into the waiting claw of an angry crab. It sounds unbelievable, but it's true - I promise. God is good - and funny - right?

I don't swim at night anymore. But I still swim out past the breakers. That day did not bind me. It set me free. I don't look forward to loss in this life, but I know one thing. When it comes - and loss is bound to come - I'll live to know joy another day...in this world or the next.