Never Ever

28| Burnout

I think my heart is exploding.

It's strange: I've stood on a block not dissimilar to this one hundreds of times, if not more, but the way my hands shake as I stretch to my toes says otherwise.

I know it's just fear; if I stopped thinking about drowning, I'd be fine, but I can't. It's like state qual times don't matter. Being a former captain doesn't matter. I'm as scared and anxious as if this were my very first time.

Lips pursed, I breathe in and out through my mouth as if whistling. I'd seen it on a TikTok once about preventing panic attacks, and while I'm not convinced it's doing much to help, it's the only thing I've got.

Around me, the other girls shake out their arms. We're starting with a 200-yard freestyle, four back-to-back lengths of the pool, followed by butterfly, backstroke, and breaststroke. I don't know how I feel about my best stroke being last, so I try not to think about it. I'm trying not to think about anything.

Yet somehow, the first thing to pop into my head is Noah. I'm starting to regret telling him he couldn't drop me off, so I imagine him here, his arms around my waist as he guides me toward the deep end. And maybe this means I'm more screwed than I thought, but thinking about him calms me.

As I'm thinking about his hands in other places, the intercom turns on. The announcer briefly explains the events, reminds us that while we must meet times for each race, this doesn't guarantee a spot, and wishes us a heart-filled good luck. I focus ahead, and for better or worse, my entire world narrows to the fifty yards of water I'm about to dive into.

"Alright," the starter says, and I picture him standing somewhere in the corner, holding the gun above his head. "Take your mark."

My fingers latch on the underside of the starting block. I feel my skin prickle under the lights. As a former swim captain, the fact I'm this afraid doesn't bode well for the future, but there's no way I'm obsessing about that now. I grip the block harder, waiting for the shot of the gun, and then, in an explosive burst, launch myself off the block.

The second I hit the surface, there's no more thinking. I slide a couple of yards underwater, the world around me narrowing to an endless stretch of blue, and even though I'd felt terrified before, I'm not anymore. Not even close. In fact, those few seconds I spend submerged are the first time all evening I've felt any peace, which is probably why, despite holding my breath, it feels like I can finally breathe.

Surfacing quickly, I unleash a series of swift, powerful strokes that cut through the water. It takes a few yards before I finally find my rhythm, a steady beat of pull, pull, breathe, pull, pull, breathe, and with the first few yards firmly out of the way, my attention turns to my arms, ensuring each movement aligns with the last. 

My old coach, Coach Haywood, used to tell us that you don't fight the water; you feel it. Each stroke lends itself to the surface's ripples, working with its natural momentum. A swimmer can push when needed and glide when it's not; the water does the rest. It's what I swear by right now, because the better I time my strokes to the ripples, the more it feels like I'm swimming in silk.

Fifty yards in, and my focus narrows, blocking out the distractions and honing in on the rhythmic cadence of my stroke. I lose myself in the fluid motion, a back-and-forth routine that, for over a year, I could picture in my sleep. Now I'm finally doing it for real, and it still feels like a dream.

Now that I've found my stride, I allow my gaze to cut to swimmer three, whose speed matches mine. I finish my breath, then kick myself further with four rapid strokes before dialing it back.

Five and six drop off as I flip into the second turn. Coach would always tell us that we'll never be faster than when pushing off the wall, and she's right. I glide as far as possible into the distance, straighten my legs, and kick only when the momentum dies off.