I first began swimming at a very young age. My father, who was an exceptional swimmer during his prime, and my mother, a stout woman who loved the sport since high school, agreed that it would be a smart decision for me to begin swimming before I even started school. As a result, at the age of 5, my dad took me to the pool, eager to teach me how to swim.
Even though I didn’t yet know how to swim, seeing kids play in the pool delighted me, and before my father even showed me what to do, I jumped straight into the turquoise water. I fell straight to the pool bottom. As I opened my eyes, I glimpsed for a second the blurred bodies of the other children swimming along the surface, and then realized the stinging pain that came with trying to see underwater. I quickly shut my eyes. I instinctually took a breath, but water filled my lungs. A feeling of helplessness engulfed me completely. I tried to take another breath, but all I was rewarded with was another mouthful of water. I started swinging my arms wildly and crying out, but it was useless. My last few bubbles of air, my cry of helplessness, escaped to the surface of the pool, yet the water responded to my panic with cold indifference. Quickly, I felt the cool water take over me and I began to lose consciousness. In an instant, my father joined me in the water and scooped up my small body. As I was brought back up to the surface, I was jolted back into consciousness and I coughed up mouthfuls of water. My father held me in his arms and waited for me to regain my composure. Then he released me once more. It was a strange teaching technique, and even though I did not know what he was doing, it succeeded in the end. I flailed around in the water again for a few seconds, until I soon realized that I could float on my back. My dad watched me do this for a solid minute until he scooped me up once more and set me on the pool deck. I stared back at the pool. Waves from the disturbances of the other children lapped continuously at the wall, but I could still see my reflection. A small, shivering little boy was staring at his reflection in the cold pool, its waves challenging him to another bout.
Soon after my dad discovered my innate capability to float, he immediately pressed on to teach me how to perform all four strokes beginning with freestyle. I sat on the wall and he told me to watch him demonstrate. Then, he pushed off the wall and swam an effortless, elegant freestyle, barely disturbing the surface of the water with his every pull while maintaining a steady rhythm of breathing. I admired how far he could glide with every stroke, how efficiently and gracefully he performed each cycle, and the steady, gentle waves behind him that marked his path through the water. He swam down the pool and back in no time at all. As he finished, the waves ceased and the pool returned to its state of peace.
When he urged me to try, I gladly obliged, but as I entered the water once more, the same feeling of helplessness overcame me. I understood how my dad swam, but when I went into the water with my eyes tightly shut, I was unable to coordinate my movements. After a few seconds of flailing and going nowhere, I surrendered to the indifferent water and returned to my floating position on my back. The pool calmed once more. My father pulled me out once more, and demonstrated once more, and I got into the pool once more, and I failed once more. The pool seemed to necessitate such repetition. We repeated the process several times until my dad thought of giving me goggles. He got a pair and adjusted them to fit my small head, and gave them to me. I put them on. When I put them on and went back into the water, I could finally see! The water did not get into my eyes! With them on, I had a completely different view of the pool. With the aid of the goggles, swimming came rather naturally. I moved my legs back and forth as rapidly as I could and swung my arms forward and pulled back. It was confusing, doing two things at once, and I only managed a couple strokes before my brain urged me to get some air and forced me to float once more on back, but I had done it. I had successfully swum freestyle. Being such a quick learner, my father imagined my potential. After he explained how to breathe properly, I practiced several more times, and was able to swim farther and farther with every attempt. We continued this for a solid hour, until the pool was closing. My dad helped me out of the water and hopped out with a grin on his face. I looked back at the pool. The pool had emptied; we were the last ones. The surface of the water was smooth, my reflection in it was clear. A proud little boy was staring at a cold, clear pool, its tranquil serenity reflecting the boy’s achievement of the day. The boy returned with his father the next day, and the day after, and the day after that. Soon, he was proficient in all four strokes. Within months, swimming had become second nature.












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After starting competitive club swimming at the age of 8 in the slow and crowded Juniors group, my coaches, like my father, saw my potential. My form and endurance already far exceeded that of my peers, and my dad kept pushing me; I quickly moved up to the faster Advanced Juniors group. This group was smaller, more selective, and more challenging of course, but within a few months, I had risen again to the most advanced group available for my age, the National Development Group (NDG). The National Development Group was an immense step up from the Advanced Juniors group, with more dedicated, more experienced, and more talented swimmers. As I was competitive by nature, the skill of my fellow swimmers forced me to challenge myself. I concentrated on keeping up with the older and faster swimmers, working harder and harder, and I noticed my improvements. My progress made me proud, motivated me to push myself even more, and encouraged my father to play an even more active part in my swimming.
Within months, I was swimming at finals at the prestigious Tom Dolan Invitational, after having gotten second in prelims. As I hopped into the pool for warm up, I felt great. All the long practices where I had pushed myself to the limit had been worth it. My arms smoothly glided through the water and each pull steadily propelled me through the undulating currents. My whole body felt at ease, and I seemed free from the pain and aches that swimming usually entails. After 30 minutes, warm up was over, and I got out of the pool once more to dry off. The events were starting. After several hours of waiting and watching other exceptional swimmers go incredibly fast, it was finally time for me to prepare to swim my event, the 100 yard butterfly. I consulted with my coach Pat. “Go after it,” he said. “Go out as fast as you can, it’s only a 100.” I took his advice into account and walked to my dad. He loaded onto me waves of encouragement. He was sure that I would do well. “Just swim fast and do what you do best,” he said. I gladly accepted his encouragement and walked to the side of the pool with the starting blocks.
As the event before us finished, the officials began by announcing each of us by name. The applause that followed the announcement of each name was encouraging and filled me with pride. Soon, it was time to begin our race. I breathed deeply and adjusted my cap and goggles. “Swimmers, please step up”, the officials said. I stepped onto the block. After a pause of several seconds, there was another announcement “Swimmers, take your mark…” I bent over, hands gripping the starting block, then a split second later, the mechanical BEEP of the starting horn resonated across the pool. In a fraction of a second, I was off. I entered the water 5 yards from the block in a solid streamline and quickly initiated a strong dolphin kick as I submerged. The white water from my entrance dissipated and my goggles gave me a clear view of the wall ahead. The view of the pool underwater was serene. Kick, kick, kick. For 2 to 3 seconds I kicked underwater, until near the 15 yard mark, I broke the surface and began my pulls. I heard the roaring atmosphere of the pool around me as my head came out of the water and my arms reached in front of me in unison. Then a fraction of a second later, I heard the noiselessness of the water as my head submerged. I felt the massive resistance that my arms were overcoming with each strong pull underwater. And then I heard the roaring once again, and the peace of the water once again, and continuously, rhythmically, the cycle repeated itself. I came upon the first turn. With a fluidness honed by hours upon hours of training, I quickly grabbed the wall with my arms, turned on my side and brought my feet into contact with the wall. I pushed off, and caught a small glimpse of the swimmers to my right. I had reached the wall first. As I pushed off underwater, I entered into a streamline once more and initiated my dolphin kicks once again. As I broke the surface once more and brought my arms out in front of me, a dull ache became evident in my triceps, my muscles were beginning to tire. As my head re-entered the water and my arms pulled back, the ache in my arms increased. I continued to swim with the same intensity, despite the protests of my aching muscles. A few strokes later, I had reached the second turn. As I performed this turn, I became aware of a pain in my abdominal muscles; however, I took a glance to my right once more, finding once again that I had reached the wall first. This discovery brought me another burst of energy. As I pushed off the second wall, the pain in my quadriceps and hamstrings magnified intensely as I initiated my kick, and as I took my first pull off the wall, the pain in my arms became almost unbearable. Nevertheless, I attempted to maintain the same pace, and with every stroke, with every breath, with every kick, my body hurt more and more. As I reached the third and final turn, excruciating pain racked my body. Though it hurt to move all of my body parts, I pushed off the final wall and automatically kicked and initiated my pulls again. Again, I glimpsed to my side and found that I was still the head of the pack. By then, my arms and legs felt like lead and my body was failing me.
Nevertheless, my goggles remained clear. They clung to my face with the same ferocity that I had come to take for granted, but I suddenly became acutely aware of their importance. They guided me through the water, they showed me the condition of my competition, they were battered and worn out, but they continued to hold on.
It took all of my effort to keep my legs and arms moving in the proper, legal technique, and all hope for maintaining my cool, graceful, elegant, and efficient stroke quickly disappeared. As I came to the last 10 yards of the race, the pain in my body shot up even more, but I continued; my proximity to the finish gave me the energy to overcome the pain. Stroke, breath, kick, stroke, breath, kick. Finally, I touched the wall. I looked up at the board. I had gotten first, dropping 2 seconds. I continued to pant for a minute as the swimmers to my left and right finished one by one, and managed to squeeze out a “Nice race” and hand-shake to the swimmers to my right and left. As we were instructed “Swimmers, please exit the pool”, I pulled myself out of the pool with a grunt, much to the displeasure of my body, and collapsed into a sitting position on the deck beside the starting blocks. I looked back at the pool. A boy was staring at a pool with a mixture of happiness, satisfaction, and relief. Despite the commotion and activity surrounding it, it remained still, patiently waiting to accept swimmers for the next race. I had completed the race, I had gotten a best time, and I had won the event. A few minutes later, I found the energy to get up, despite my still aching body, and walk to my coach and my father, who both congratulated me and talked to me about my race. I had done well.
As the meets went by, and the months went by, and the years went by, I stopped doing so well. By the age of 15, swimmers in the hundreds surged past me in the rankings. Though I trained harder and faster, went to more and longer practices, spent more time with my dad who coached me, and moved up to the fastest group, it was no use. My dad pushed me harder and harder, and became impatient with my stagnant progress. He lectured me on my swimming ethic, how I wasn’t trying enough, how I should get faster, but I made little improvement. In the time that my teammates had dropped 10 seconds in the 100 yard butterfly, I had only dropped 5. In the time that my teammates had dropped 12 seconds in the 200 yard freestyle, I had only dropped 7. It made no sense to me. I did not understand. How were they all getting so fast? Why wasn’t I improving? Swimming was not working out for me, I was getting tired of the monotony, tired of the tiny 0.1 second drops, tired of the work and effort without results.
Saturday morning practice. Saturday mornings were never good. There was just something about waking up at 5 in the morning to go to a swimming pool to swim for 4 hours that was unappealing. I always went nevertheless, they were a requirement. As I got to the pool at 5:20, changed into my suit, put on my very battered goggles, jumped in at 5:30 sharp, and began swimming the warm-up 800 yard freestyle, the familiar ache of my muscles, results of Friday afternoon practice, greeted me instantly. The practice was not going to be a good one. The first 800 freestyle was bearable, despite my discomfort, because it was warm up and I went as slow and as easy as I possibly could. We continued warm up for a solid hour, practicing kick, working on technique, and doing specific drills designed to improve our swimming. It was very typical, and it being warm up, I was not in too much pain. However, after the first hour passed, and warm up came to a conclusion, we began our main set.
Our coach Bill announced the set, “30 500s on 5:30”. Thirty 500 yard freestyles… on a 5 minute and 30 second interval… it was impossible. The best time that I had ever gone in a 500 was a 5:13, and that was for one 500, off of a starting block, at a swim meet, fully rested and in my best condition. There was no way that I was going to be able to make the set, tired and sore as I was. Nevertheless, I tried to make it. As we began the first 500, I sprinted from the start to try to keep up with my fellow swimmers, a beginner’s mistake. By the time that I had completed the first 300, my body’s dormant aches and pains had resurfaced, and by the first 400, my energy was practically depleted. During the last 100, my entire body hurt, but I still continued and finished the 500 with a disappointing time of 5:27. All of my energy was gone, and I had only completed the first 500. In 3 seconds, as the clock struck 5:30 and beeped, I forced myself to push off again for the second 500. My teammates rushed past me. I tried to swim as fast as I could, yet I did not seem to go anywhere. By the time I had finished the first 200 of the second 500, my body refused to listen to my brain. My goggles fogged up. I was swimming blind, simply going back and forth, back and forth, without the time or the courage to stop and fix my goggles. Though I kept trying to go faster and faster, to keep up with my teammates, the pain in my arms, legs, and core continued to intensify, and I only got slower and slower.
Soon, Andrew, my teammate who was sharing the lane with me, lapped me. In the time that I took to finish a 200, he had already finished a 250. As Andrew lapped me, I attempted to bring forth a burst of energy to try and keep up with him, but it was no use. My body failed to perform. My pace continued to slow, and by the time Andrew had finished his second 500, I was only done with a 400. By the time that he left the wall once again for his third 500, I had only completed a 450. By the time that I touched the wall and finished my second 500, it had been 6 minutes and 12 seconds since I finished my first 500, and I quickly left the wall once again. I swam back and forth for what seemed like hours, getting lapped with greater and greater frequency by Andrew. I was practically swimming a 15000 yard freestyle straight. I could not bring myself to do it. The sport was no longer fun for me. At the end of my 17th 500, after getting lapped by Andrew a total of 49 times, my old, trusty goggles snapped. I finally stopped, and my coach jumped. “Why are you stopping David? You aren’t making the 500s. Keep going,” he said. Ignoring his comments, I got out of the pool. My body was weak and my muscles were numb with pain, but I got out nevertheless. I got out of the pool, threw my goggles to the pool deck, and looked back at the pool one last time. A young man was staring at a pool, broken and defeated. The multitude of swimmers in the pool swam back and forth, making waves and splashes of white water everywhere. The pool was white with rage, angry at the swimmer who had chosen to leave it forever. I walked to the locker room despite the screams of my coach, changed into my clothes and left the pool, and resolved to never come back. Like my vision through my foggy goggles, my vision for the future was unclear. At the age of 15, after many long years and a huge dedication to the sport, I had quit swimming forever.
Now, looking at the same pool, I am greeted by my reflection. I recount all my memories of swimming. All those years of training gone down the drain. All of my success, simply a thing of the past. In light of my outstanding accomplishments in the sport, it would have been a better decision to stick with swimming until the end. But swimming was simply too hard and too monotonous. When one is at the head of the pack, we can find the motivation to continue on, to work harder and harder. However, when we find ourselves tumbling behind, in a sport where we try to push ourselves to go faster and faster, what is one to do? Even with my father’s pressure, I couldn’t find a source of motivation. Nevertheless, my time of swimming was long gone. It was a piece of the past that would slowly and steadily be forgotten. Like the hopes and aspirations of men everywhere, my future in swimming was simply a dream, and it was dashed out of existence, a dream to join the millions and millions of dreams long since past and long since forgotten.