Warning: On average, this post is a 6-minute read
Photo Credits to Marina Shemesh (http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=18182&picture=swimming-pool)
As luck would have it, I was taught how to swim as early as when I first learned how to walk. Naturally, this allowed me to stay ahead of the curb compared to most of my peers, making me a shoo-in for many swimming competitions. That’s about as far as lady luck went before she up and left me.
Our high school holds an annual, week-long Intramural sports program — serious stuff; team managers overseeing everything, steering committees running left and right, weeks of arduous training. During my first year, I won bronze in the 25 m Breaststroke event, beating five other people for a place in the podium. The swimming events consist of two heats (or rounds), with two representatives for each of the four batches. The pool wasn’t huge, it was only 25 meters long and its width could only cater to four competitors — that’s why two heats were needed, if the pool was wider then there would only be one heat for each event. You only had one shot, that’s why every swimmer had to give it their all once the whistle sounds.
During my second year, my confidence was at an all-time high — my ego was inflated by my previous year’s win. I had a legitimate claim to the gold medal because last year’s first and second placers have graduated. You could not have wiped that smug grin off my face as I floated through the hallway, into our batch’s headquarters for the week.
Well … in retrospect, I guess there was one thing.
Unbeknownst to me, the varsity was given permission to play in their respective sports, unlike last year. I didn’t sign up for the varsity team because I didn’t have the capacity to keep up with the training schedule. It’s not that I was bothered by the emergence of competition, it was because that the varsity players had to be inserted into their specialty events.
I was pushed out of the Breaststroke events, both the 25 m and 50 m.
Internally, I remember feeling extremely furious upon seeing my name scratched off the board, but the look on my face seemed to only exude confusion. Everyone was scrambling around that morning, re-arranging schedules left and right. The Breaststroke event wasn’t until tomorrow, but unfortunately, I was placed into the 50 m Butterfly event that was scheduled in about 10 minutes.
Butterfly. There’s a metaphor for change here somewhere, but I couldn’t be bothered with it at the time.
All my detestation fell into deaf ears, as my peers goaded me to run to the pool area so as not to forfeit the event. In all my years of swimming, I never bothered to learn how to swim the Butterfly stroke. I was unnerved, and I still didn’t have a swimming attire. Accompanied by the person who stole my original spot from me — who was coincidentally an expert when it came to the Butterfly stroke as well — I marched myself into the locker room. Inside, he lent me his thong-styled swimming trunks and taught me how to swim the Butterfly while I changed. Traditionally, I wore the more conservative swimming trunks because it felt more comfortable. I kept protesting, telling him that if he knew how to swim the stroke expertly then he should be the one in this event, but all I could hear from him was keyhole this and push myself off the water that.
I came out of the locker room feeling bare, even though I was scantily clad in another man’s swimming trunks. I shot a grim gaze back at my peer, but all he gave me was a smile and two thumbs up in return. I hated everyone at that moment; I hated my team, I hated my opponents and I hated the world. I wanted to drown instead of being subjected to this embarrassment.
The pool area was jam-packed; the whole school was there to witness my execution. My teammate sat stoically against a cement wall near the starting point. I sat next to him, trying to calm myself. It was nerve-wracking; all I could hear was the roar of the crowd and my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest.
The first heat swimmers stood at their diving boards, and launched themselves to the water upon hearing the whistle. The roar of the crowd intensified as soon as the three bodies hit the pool. Three bodies. I turned to my side, only to discover that my teammate was still sitting stoically. My eyes widened as I tried to come to grips with what was going on. I tried to hide my smile as soon as I realized that I might not be required to embarrass myself. I breathed a long-drawn exhale; a thorn plucked from my chest, my shoulders were relieved of a massive weight.
My teammate took to the stand as soon as the second heat commenced. I sat back, laughed and cheered with the crowd. From a distance, my batch mates motioned to me, asking why I didn’t swim, to which I feigned innocence. I reasoned that my teammate didn’t swim the first heat — the one he was assigned to — so I gave him my heat.
In the middle of the heat, the commissioner of the swimming events came up to me and asked me why I was dry. I told him what had transpired and a sinister grin flashed from his face. As soon as the splashing subsided, he took to the microphone and announced a “special” third heat was to be enacted. My jaw fell to my feet.
My batch mates goaded and pushed me to the stand. My knees shook, as I secured the goggles to my face. The crowd was cheering but the intensity had decreased dramatically. I gritted my teeth, swallowed my pride and jumped off the diving board.
As soon as I hit the water, the goggles fell of its position and constricted the lower half of my face. I tried desperately to follow the instructions for the Butterfly stroke step-by-step, but had the most difficult time. Whenever I pulled myself up, all I could hear was silence. I felt the mucous drip from my nose and my thighs began to cramp up, but I soldiered on. By the halfway turn, all I could see was my batch mates motioning for me to hurry up, so I wiped my nose with my forearm and swam what felt like the length of forever.
After I finished, they kept teasing me how slow I was and that they were telling me to hurry up so that the next event could begin. There were no encouraging words, not even words of consolation. I finished 7th out of eight, while my teammate — the varsity player — won the gold medal. My batch mate — who got my slot in the Breaststroke events — won the silver medal. The next year, I refused to join any sporting event and elected to join the steering committee.
What was the point of all of this besides catharsis? For those of you who have stuck around until this point, it would be this: Life doesn’t always afford us the opportunity to be prepared — sometimes the most difficult of events happen when we least expect it. Don’t wait for the moment when life catches you off-guard. The best way to avoid situations like this is to always be prepared for everything.
Another lesson that can be learned is that sometimes we might not get the luck of the draw, and that’s okay. Life is full of missteps like this to remind us of our vulnerability. It’s how we deal with it that matters — what shows the fortitude of our character.