The Hungry Hungry Writer

“THE SWIM”

“Screw that ‘Never Quit’ Idea”
(PART TWO)

There are a few athletic events in my life that can make me wake up in a panic attack - soaked from head to toe. One has to do with my start up the ranks in the World Karate Organization in 1998. The goal: to eventually fight for the championships. I was still fast enough, stronger than I’ve ever been, and if you were in my weight division I’d knock you out. I looked over to the guy I was eventually supposed to fight. He was menacing. I have never been intimated by another fighter in my entire life. Ever. So this fight was a walk in the park. The fight started and I found my range quick. I was relaxed and after a couple of moves I knew I had it. I was already ahead in points when I tried to avoid a punch and fell back. He fell on top of me. As the ref pulled him off me I felt something slam into my face. It was his knee. The ref looked at me frighteningly and called a trainer - my Shihan (Gordon Doversola). My nose was positioned WAY off center. FREAKISHLY OFF CENTER!

It was broken.

Shihan grabbed the lapel of his gi with his fingers and told me to close my eyes. He squeezed my nose with his gi, held my head in place and asked ‘ready’ and before I could say anything he SNAPPED my nose back into place with one powerful, confident (like he’s done it a million times) jerk. I heard bones. I heard myself scream. My opponent was waiting on the mat ready to continue the fight. The ref looked over and Shihan shook his head, ‘no’.

A fraction of a second of protection and I would have had a different story to tell. I would have won that fight. I know I would have. But I was careless and I got nailed and I lost. And it hurts my gut thinking about it.

That fight didn’t stop me from training for another qualifier. But an injured shoulder from a kick, by my ‘future brother in-law’, a few months later did. And that was the end of my fight career. I’m eight years older and I have accepted the fact that there is no going back. No way. But that one fight will haunt me forever.

So here I am, June 10, 2006 - in the water. Nervous as hell. Afraid of the water.

The sound of “ONE… GO!”, followed by cheers and the amazing feeling of starting a race, jumped started my heart. But as soon as the overpowering feeling of individuals moving as one overwhelmed me, it disappeared in a flash… or splash as far as I was concerned.

I took a deep breath and I started my swim.

The splashing was all around me. I was kicked, I was on someone’s hip, and I struggled for balance. Even though I was getting hit by seemingly careless swimmers, when I smacked someone’s foot and kicked someone’s head, I felt like I invaded their space. But they were doing what I was doing… fighting to stay in the game. Fighting to stay alive. Fighting to survive.

I was a warrior before I started Triathlons, I decided to be a warrior again. So in my head I took that mental attitude. Usually it’s me against the bike, me against the run, not me against mob rule. I fought to find my space and I went into battle thinking just that. It’s a battle. And I wasn’t about to back down.

My first landmark was about 25 meters away: one length of the gym swimming pool. Once I turned that it was a straight swim for another 350 or so yards before the turn for the finish line. No problems. All I had to worry about was fatigue, and there was none.

It was tough to keep sight of my landmark, the first buoy, which was the significant sign of turning and heading the long 350 more yards to the finish. I got nine strokes in and checked, another nine and checked, and it felt like I wasn’t gaining any ground. I looked at my landmark, I had swum outside of the crowd and they started to pull away so I cut in a little bumping into others who were trying to stay straight. Being on the outside I had to swing around and head back towards the landmark. It was now more than a 25 meter swim and more like 50.

But I felt good, I wasn’t fatigued, I was going great… Physically my conditioning told me everything would be okay. But I couldn’t breath. And suddenly, it was a mental game. And it was way too soon to play it. All of a sudden it wasn’t my throat that felt tight, it was my whole chest. I felt claustrophobic in my wetsuit. It felt so tight that every time I took a deep breath the tight fit squeezed it right out of my lungs. My feet also felt higher in the water than normal, which is good, but it made me feel unbalanced. I was fighting to keep my head close to the top of the water and felt like everything was forcing the top part of my body and my head to sink into the water and my legs to float. Which is the total opposite of how I swim but the more proper form. I wasn’t prepared for this feeling of claustrophobia. And I panicked.

I hit my target. That was goal one. But goal one was also accompanied by fear like you wouldn’t believe. I sighted a swimmer in front of me waving his arms. I thought he was waving at someone on shore. He didn’t look like he was struggling, but he wasn’t swimming. Just doggy paddling about fifteen feet in front of me.

A lifeguard on a surfboard paddled her way toward him and as I swam by I heard her ask if he was okay… He said ‘no’. She asked if he needed help and he said he just needed to rest. This was only 75 or so meters into the swim! And I was feeling the same way.

I got on my back and tried hard to get air into my lungs and keep it there long enough to relax instead of hyperventilate. I tried everything to relax.

I looked into the sky, I’m not sure if I prayed, and I looked at the shore. I was breathing fast and hard but I wasn’t tired. It was a pure panic attack.

I got on my side and tried to ‘skull’ the water when it just felt like I couldn’t swim anymore. The crowd of swimmers were way out of reach by now. I couldn’t believe how fast they got to where they were. There were just a few strays like me fighting to stay the course. But I just couldn’t stroke, I just couldn’t keep my balance in the water, and I couldn’t complete this 400 yard swim. There was no way. No possible way.

I saw others holding on to a lifeguard’s surfboard. There were like five or six lifeguards watching us in the water. They were awesome.

I looked out to shore, trying to find my family… Even if they were in view, there was no way I could make them out. I was too far.

I looked ahead at another swimmer holding on to the surfboard for dear life. And I dug in and swam, kicking and gasping for air for the security of a surfboard ahead.

The lifeguard asked if I was okay. I muttered, ‘tired’. “You just need a rest?” I nodded as I instinctively made my way to the front of the surfboard. I took a deep breath and screamed in my head, “COME ON! GO! COME ONE! GO!”

I went.

I did everything I learned. Bilateral breathing, good relaxed pulls and recovery. “FUCK IT! COME ON!” I took it as a battle for life. Facing adversity in the face and kicking its ass. I got mad. I was furious. And I sliced my hands into the water with a purpose with every stroke. It takes me about 25 strokes to go 25 meters in the pool. That’s about 8 breaths in 30 or so seconds. But three breaths and 10 meters later I was gasping for air.

I got on my back and kicked trying again to desperately relax and get some air into my lungs. I took a look up and the lifeguard was chasing me fast. What was going on? Did she think I was drowning? I got back on my stomach to show I was okay. I mean, that would be embarrassing if she thought I was drowning. I was panicked, I was out of breath, I was claustrophobic but I WAS NOT DROWNING!

When I got on my stomach I noticed I was WAY off course. That’s why she chased me. I was actually swimming in a bee line to the shore. Holy shit. Talk about embarrassing. I should have faked drowning so I could be saved from this miserable mess. I kinda gave her a laugh and shouted, ‘I’m going the wrong way, huh?” She laughed back.

I turned back to the swim course. But the shore was closer now. And I considered swimming to it. I was really, really, really thinking about quitting. Quitting because of fear. I was feeling so disappointed in myself - as if I quit already. Inside my head it was over. And I was done. The people were watching. They were probably laughing at me as I accidentally swam toward shore. Why not just complete the embarrassment and give up. I wasn’t racing anybody but myself, so what’s the big deal if I quit?

The whole, ‘Never Quit’ idea I try to teach Jake crossed my mind and I thought to myself… screw that idea. There’s a good reason to quit. One is quitting because you just can’t do it anymore and you gave it everything you had. Which I did. I gave it EVERYTHING I had. Everything. But my mind, my body, my training… it just wasn’t good enough to get it done.

The lifeguard was only fifty meters away and I readjusted my sights from the shore and back to him. Fifty meters. In two minutes I’d be there. So I buried my head in the water and kicked hard.

I struggled to grab on to the surfboard and this time really took some time to relax and catch my breath. It seemed over. I was going to quit. I was going to swim to shore.

Then that fight back in 1998 crossed my mind. Not the fight per se, but the regret, the anxiety and the middle of the night panic attacks I continue to have because I was unable to continue. The regret and horror of it all still haunts me today. I am already going to be haunted by the fact that I had to grab a hold of a surfboard because I couldn’t swim a straight 400 yards in a lake. That’s already eating at me as I write this.

I let go and did it all over again. I struggled in the dark water and tried to get back on the course.

I felt deflated. I made quick checks to make sure I wasn’t going the wrong way again. Every single time I turned to swim I’d last 9 strokes and three breaths before gasping for air. It wasn’t torture, it was emotional pain, it was complete and utter frustration and disappointment every time I gasped for air.

There were no lifeguards to swim to from here. If I needed someone they’d have to swim to me as they were spread out helping others or patrolling the swimmers along the way. My off course swim had made me swim an additional fifty or so meters in order to get back on course.

I looked at the finish line and swimmers were already coming out of the water. I wasn’t even half way through and swimmers were running out of the water.

Seven minutes in. That’s all. I knew this because I saw the second wave approaching me. And they started six minutes after me.

All I needed to do was make it to one more marker then swim to the finish.

One more marker - far off in the distance.

Then I looked back at the shore again. It was closer.

(to be continued)