Personal Narrative Essay About Swimming

Every time I travel a trail they are always a few months apart what I always do is a sport to help me prepare for the long hike. From my experiences I could be called athletic, but from my point of view I am not and may never be. But that is besides the point, so this is how I got into my first sport which also changed my life, it was swimming the reason why I started in the first place was because of my sister. You see when I was about like 7 or 8 I always was determined to be like my sister, I know it may sound weird but kids always see their older siblings as a example in their life. But I am starting to digress, anyway the reason why swimming changed my life was because it help me make new friends and be more active. And maybe because

My parents tell me that I took to swimming like... a fish takes to water. It is a safe place where I can float free of worries. Driven by passion and dedication, I decided to begin swimming competitively. Competitive swimming requires an intense level of determination and discipline. Forcing myself to get out of my warm bed at 5:30 in the morning to put on a still-slightly-damp swimsuit and stand in 40-degree weather waiting for practice to start. Putting up with limited lane space and irritating swimmers who think they are faster. Making a conscious effort to work on my stroke form, turns, touches, and techniques. The water becomes a whirlpool of injuries, losses, wins, friendships, enemies, and sickness. The water becomes home.

I woke up nauseous, too sick to eat. The whole drive there I was praying it would be cancelled. The fear consumed me; I couldn’t move. I just wanted to be home in my warm, comfy bed, instead I was diving into an ice cold pool. After warm-up my coach gave me a pep talk, but I was too nervous to listen. Sometimes I got so nervous I’d throw up, right before my event. To this day I still don’t understand why I got so anxious at swim meets. For the past several years, I have had a love hate relationship with swimming. I always struggled with swimming, and many times I wanted to quit. The time commitment and the physical requirements have always been a little too much for my mind to handle and it all comes to a crescendo when it is time to compete. I often wondered why I continued to put

As I was staring at the blue and white tiles on the floor, I felt the fear in body pressing me down. I turned around to see that my friend was pointing towards a piece of paper taped to the brick wall. He advised me to get ready to put on my swim cap and goggles because my swim event was coming up shortly. The event seemed quite easy, the only problem I had was the pressure that had built up inside me. All the previous thoughts were stuck in my head, making me

I began swimming when I was eight years old. My mother wanted to make sure my siblings and I knew how to swim so she signed us up for lessons at the YMCA. After a few lessons, my instructor informed us that he was the head coach at a swim club and would love for us to join. My sister and I joined the club and swam there for a year or two. It became evident that both of us had a natural talent for swimming and my parents looked into a more competitive team. We joined the Southern Michigan Aquatics Club (SMAC) shortly after.

When I first learned how to swim, I was 5 years old. My family and I were outside by the pool and I was on a float in the water. My brother and dad were in the water while my mom and sister were tanning on the deck. My mom got hot and started to get in the water. My dad came behind me and flipped me. I really didn't know how to swim so i was drowning. I was trying to push myself up when my mom grabbed me and picked me up. I went to go lay down by my mom when my dad picked me up again. My dad started to fake throw me in. My mom, brother, and sister all went inside. When they got insdie, my dad grabbed me and threw me in again. I thought I was gonna die but then I started to doggy pattel. My mom came outside and started to freak out. I told

     "The Swimmer" by John Cheever describes Neddy Merril's "swim" home. Neddy is a husband and a father, he is also a drunk. The story encompasses about twenty years of his life of alcohol which ruined not only him but also his relationship with his family. One day after waking up with a hangover he drinks a little and decides to swim home. It is obvious he is a drunk because he is constantly searching for a drink on his swim home.

I grew up in a skiing family. My dad was a tournament water skier, and has snow skied several times. My mom used to do a lot of water skiing, and has snow skied as well. My parents actually met at the Lake of the Ozarks. After they had kids, they moved to Glen Carbon, Illinois, and then to where we live now. We go to the lake two or three times a year, and waterski. I have had my fair share of wipeouts and successes. Wakeboards, jump skis, slalom skis, I have learned them all, and I am pretty good at them too. Since I felt comfortable water skiing, I thought snow skiing would not be much worse.

“Take your mark, set, go!” Instead of diving swiftly into the pool and making no noise, I belly flopped so hard that I splashed the other swimmers on my side. Embarrassed and physically hurt, I couldn't stop because I had a race to complete and a time to beat. Kicking as fast as I could and breathing after every stroke, I swam my heart out. Even though I was the last person to touch the wall, I was satisfied because I had just beat my personal record.

There was a time I remember being at a friends to swim. We had just put our sunscreen on and did not decide to wait until it had dried to our skin. Within a few hours we all had burns on every inch of our body. For the next few weeks my back was bright red and soon I began to peel. It was like taking paint of a wall when it came of my back. That was a time I realized that reading the instructions can get you a long way away from torment. For a week I had realy bad sunburns on my shoulders and for some odd reason on my legs.

The morning winter sky was painted with an overcast of dark, gray, clouds. The air stung my cheeks with the sharp coldness as I stepped out of the dark gray car and walked away from the pleasant heat that was circulating inside. I waved goodbye to my friend’s mom that gave us the ride, and ] pushed the car door closed. I sighed tiredly began to walk to the new Milpitas High School pool for my swim meet with my best friend, and also crush, Kaleb. We entered the pool deck that smelled strongly of chlorine and was full of frustrated coaches, nervous competitors, and families searching for someplace to sit that was warm. The pool created a big vapor cloud of the warm chlorine water vapor that was battling the cold misty air. It was my first swim meet that was in the 12 year old to 17 year old division and I was the youngest swimmer in all of my heats, or groups. I

Over the summer I decided to kill the 75 days by swimming again –a sport I haven’t touched, let alone thought about, in the past 2 years. At first my swims were leisurely because I barely remembered how to kick and breathe, but after a couple of sessions my unused muscles remembered and swimming was as easy as breathing, minus my endurance and speed. Once this hurdle was passed another quickly appeared, my need for being better. Signing up for the local swim team was possibly one of the best and worst decisions I’ve made this summer.

I used to never understand why people gave me so much attention. It was always strange. On my swim and track team, I would constantly hear “What was Bryant’s time?” or “How did Bryant do?”. Even during swim practices, people wanted to either swim against or with me. At swim meets my teammates would cheer me on, toes hanging off the side of the pool, almost every race I swam. At track meets a crowd would always anticipate my arrival by the finish line. In school, whenever my hand flies to the air, conversations cease to a halt. Silence fills the air, and everyone is left waiting for my response. I can tell that my peers are waiting in anticipation for my answer. In the classroom, people were curious of my contribution to the discussion. Even

During the swim season of my sophomore year, we had a meet in American against Moreau Catholic High School. I had finished my allotted two events, and was walking back to the locker room to change into my clothes and get ready to go home. As I was walking with my friend, we heard commotion of a missing person for the last event and varsity. I brushed it off as an upperclassmen problem and continued to change. As I was about to leave campus, the coach ran up to me and asked what my 100 meter freestyle time was. As I was about to answer, he said that it doesn’t matter and he wants me to run back and change because the event is starting in a minute. I changed and the buzzer rang as I was taking off my pants. I ran into the pool and started swimming anyway. Our relay team got first in that event.

Almost every weekend during months of April, May, and June, I am out on the water racing. The daily practices are draining and boring, but what makes this sport worth it is when it comes time to race. The minutes leading up to the race are the most stressful and chaotic. All the teams in the category line up bow ball to stern, waiting for the marshalls to give instruction. As my boat and I wait, it's my job to calm the nerves of the rowers and make sure we are all ready to go in a moments notice. Before the start I always say “It’s a beautiful day to row”. I save it until the last minute, right before the countdown begins; 10, 9, 8 strokes until the clock is on. It has become a tradition. Even in the worst conditions I'll still say it, and