Ride the Wave

It had been his dream to swim in the Olympics. The one thing he’d wanted more than life. Now, finally, after many years of back-breaking, emotionally frustrating work it would be his reality. He was physically ready – he felt better than he had in is two decades of being a “chlorine-head”.

His best friend had dubbed him that after his first record won in the State competition for his summer team and had sent him a card bearing those two words after every school record that had fallen against the onslaught of his six foot four inch frame.

The pool, a fifty meter rectangular box, for the next three minutes would be his world. There was nothing outside it but the water, the waves, the competition. Ever since he was a little boy he’d been fascinated by the turquoise rippling liquid, the pristinely painted black lines, the floating lane lines and the colorful flags. The natatorium had the air of a carnival and a church at the same time. It was both spectacle and sanctuary.

Now, the spectacle was in full gear as he waited patiently for his race to be called. Murmurs rippled up and down the bleachers like an unseen “wave” usually reserved for football games. He was too wrapped up in his own giddiness. “Nervousness is like a wave…” He whispered to himself. “Be on top of it.”

These words, given to him from a very reliable source, the Olympic Gold Medalist Ian Crocker were enough to calm him down and have him looking around, surveying his surroundings. The first thing that caught his eye was the colorful swim suits. Most of the men had switched from the traditional skimpy Speedos to the full body suit or the knee length jammers. He shook his head at some of the colors. His tastes ran on the simple side of things: a plain black jammer was enough to satisfy his fashion sense, such as it was.

He blew out a breath and paced the uneven, tiled floor, swinging his arms around his chest. His coach walked by and motioned to the bottle of grape Gatorade sitting neglected on his folding chair. With a sigh, he lifted it and took a long swig, raising a brow at his coach as if to say: “Happy now?” His coach smiled mildly and walked away, leaving him once again with his thoughts. He shook out his arms. They were nice and loose, thanks to his excitement that had kept him awake until close to two in the morning – leading to hours of stretching while watching Emeril on Food Network’s late night programming. Still, as a precaution, he gave them another quick stretch before swinging them back and forth.

With a deep, loud sigh he flopped into an uncomfortable plastic chair and stared off into space. He thought back over his years as a swimmer, the hours he’d spent in the pool when all his friends had been out playing ball and later when his high school buddies had been chasing women.

But he felt like he hadn’t missed out on anything. The water gave him something baseball and female company couldn’t: purpose. He’d always felt like he hadn’t had a purpose, that was until his mother, in defense against his rapid descent into “hoodlum-ism” had enrolled him into swimming lessons. He’d been hooked ever since.

He took another slow drag from his Gatorade bottle. He was so distracted that the buzzer from the head timer’s stand made him jump slightly. He blew out a breath when the monotone voice merely announced the next heat. As he waited, he felt his muscles coil in nervous tension. In response, he rose from the uncomfortable chair he’d plopped into and began to pace. He caught his coach’s eye and shrugged his shoulders, turning his back, closing his eyes and trying to visualize the race.

The sound of voices of the swimmers from the previous heat walking by made him open his eyes and blow out an unsteady breath. “A wave…” he whispered, pushing his hands through the closely-cut hair on his head.

He had qualified to compete against Olympians and now he had a chance to make a name for himself. Now, whether that name was good or bad was up to him, and he was unwavering in his resolve to climb out of the water the victor.

He hated losing. His mother had complained about his poor sportsmanship before, in fact she nagged his father to do something about it until he’d finally died from the strain of her constant badgering. Not that he blamed her for it. His dad was a mean asshole anyway.

Another reason he loved swimming so much. It got him out of the house for six hours a day, seven days a week.

“Qualifying heat five, men’s one hundred meter freestyle, to the blocks please,” the call broke through his jumbled thoughts and whipped his mind clean as a rag over a dusty TV screen.

He blew out a breath and squared his shoulders. His cap and goggles were put into place with practiced ease. It was useless to feel inferior now. He had the second fastest time in his heat. He was rested; he was prepared. He was hungry for it. The hunger was a nice fire burning in his gut and propelled him forward to stand in front of the starting block labeled number three. The seven other swimmers in his heat stood next to him on either side, each preparing for the race in their own special way.

He glanced to his right, and his left, his shoulders tensing in anticipation. As he waited for the call to mount the blocks, he felt a shiver of excitement rush down his spine, springing goose-bumps along the way. He rubbed his hands together, before swinging his arms in wide arcs, enjoying the slight sting as his thumbs slapped against his bare back.

The call finally came, and he stepped up onto the rough plastic, his toes curling over the edge as he stepped into the traditional track start. He let his head drop and his arms dangle. He was staring at his belly button, scrunched from his bent position. “On your marks,” surprised him enough to have him be the last one to grip the block, folding his fingers around the block.

The starting beep echoed in the air, and it seemed as all the swimmers leapt from their respective blocks at the same time that they entered the water in slow motion. The crowd was quiet, only to erupt into sound when the swimmers broke the surface for their first stroke.

His first breath was taken gladly before he got down to business, not bothering to breath again until he was three strokes away from the wall. The chlorinated water splashed coolly against his warm face as he breathed, and enveloped him as he ducked his head into the flip turn. Coming out of the turn he had no idea if he were in last place or first. His position didn’t matter. It was a fight to the death, just him and the water. His legs churned, his arms pummeled the water. He hazarded a glance to the swimmer in lane four, the only one in the race with a time faster than his. Not by much, he reminded himself. Put in a decent swim and you’ll send him home. This thought sent his body into overdrive, as the water fairly sizzled off of his streamlined body.

The last ten meters were agony. His lungs burned, but he took no breath – his arms were screaming but he ignored them. In fact he pushed them harder. The contact sang up his arm when his hand crashed against the touch pad. That was it. The race was over.

He ducked his head under the water, almost afraid to look and see where he had placed. He was worried, for the first time in his career he was not able to tell what his time was – his fine-tuned internal clock was unresponsive. With an inward sigh he surfaced and climbed out of the water, his eyes searching out his coach.

The older man’s head nodded, and the tired athlete felt all his muscles go lax. He sank to the pool deck and fought his desire to cry out. He had won. His coach approached his slumped form and pressed his palm into his shoulder. The words that came from his mouth barely registered. Finally he squeezed the quivering muscle and pointed up to the score board.

“A pool record,” he said proudly. “Damn fine swim, son.” He grinned, patting his shoulder. He left him there, swamped with emotions he couldn’t name. His victory was complete. He was a record holder. Best of all, he was an Olympian.