Personal Narrative Essay: The Olympic Trials For White Water

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.

“Take your marks”, the referee said then boom as fast as lighting I heard the beep and leapt from the blocks and raced my heart out. As I raced I felt amazing hitting ever flip turn perfectly not missing a stroke and then I finished looked up and say I had done it. I beat the kid who said I was bad and couldn’t swim. We then all got out and I went over to congratulate him. We sho hands and said good job but that’s when I asked him why he had said those words. He didn’t know why he had done it. He apologized and said that he had underestimated me, and from this day on he was no longer so cocky, his temple had been crushed and he no longer underestimated me. So this shows and explains the morals of this story. You can have a different perspective on people or judge them in a wrong way. This person happened to look at me and think to himself that I was a bad swimmer, somebody who would never win, and somebody who would never beat him. He looked at me and judged me before he even knew if I was good or not. I beat him and proved to him that I wasn’t this “sucky swimmer”, and this is the story of when someone miss judged

When I was five I joined a swim team, District of Columbia Parks and Recreation (DCPR). At the time every swimmer was Black, which was an anomaly even in the chocolate city. For all intensive purposes this made the team special, because swimming is a predominantly white sport. It was and is a rarity to see 95 plus Black children swimming. Of the hundreds of swim teams in our region, only two were made up of Black swimmers. As Black swimmers, we come in all genders, ages, and sizes, but the one thing we collectively hold in common is the color of our skin. We do not look nor could we begin to replicate the stereotypical swimmer, the hipless, silky haired, bird-liked framed white males and females that are iconic in the sport. It is simple to

When I was five I joined a swim team, District of Columbia Parks and Recreation (DCPR). At that time every swimmer was Black which was an anomaly even in the chocolate city. For all intensive purposes this made up of the team so special. Swimming is a predominantly white sport. It is a rarity to see the 95 plus member team of Black children. Of the hundreds of swim teams in our region, only two were made up of Back swimmers. As Black swimmers, we come in all genders, ages, and sizes, but the one thing we collectively hold in common is the color of our skin. We do not look nor could we begin to replicate, like the stereotypical swimmer, the hipless, silky haired, bird-liked framed white maleness and females that are iconic in the sport. With

Every year, a certain event takes place that is just as important to my family and I as Christmas, Thanksgiving, and the Fourth of July. However, most of America doesn’t even know this event exists. A five day festival held the first week in August in a small town along the North Shore. In 2015, this little town in the upper northeast region of Minnesota was named “America’s Coolest Small Town,” by Budget Travel. This small town is known as Grand Marais and is home to around 1,341 people. In the 1930s, Grand Marais was a small village with a primary focus on logging and commercial fishing. Many of the community members in this small village decided to gather together for a shoreline picnic as a way to get to know one another and have a good time. This shoreline picnic is now called Fisherman’s Picnic, and has been a tradition carried on for 86 years. The Grand Marais Lions and Lioness Clubs along with many other community organizations work for months preparing for the 10,000 to 15,000 people in attendance each year. Tourist around the country come to partake in this small community gathering that offers a variety of unique events and great food.

The Geelong College boys swimming season began in Term 4 2016, and it was evident within the first handful of Saturday competitions that it was going to be a good year with many successes. The season was filled with commitment and enthusiasm, with majority of our team attending many hard and physically demanding training sessions being set day and night, Monday to Friday. With the help and dedication of our coaches Dean Alchin and Mitch Norton the college swim team was ready to take on the GISSA swim competition where we competed against various schools from both Geelong and the Bellarine. The boys swam to the best of their abilities and gave it their all taking away second place overall. Numerous personal bests were swum and it was shown that the boys were ready and pumped to take their swimming to the next level and show what a strong team the college had produced this season at the APS swim finals set at MSAC.

Leading up to state championships my junior year I dreamed of standing atop the podium, and validating my years of hard work. The first day of competitions, I felt the nerves kick in before my banked slalom race. Riding on the chair lift and looking at the flags, jumps, and turns, my stomach dropped. Sitting on the lift I pictured two outcomes, one where I had the perfect run.The other where I stumbled the down the course, hardly making it across the finish line. At the top of the course I kept playing the worst outcome over and

On the first day of practice I was extremely out of place. I was among athletes who were six-foot and had played high intensity sports before. The first week came as a slap to the face for me because we trained harder than I had ever done in my life. Over the next 3 months of winter training I began to fall into place among the other athletes and to my surprise I was placed in the upperclassmen quad. This boat was predicted to be the fastest boat that we raced so there was a lot of competition for it. Since there were two other upperclassmen that weren’t in the boat my placement in the quad was always being reevaluated to ensure that it had the fastest athletes in it.

It was just a typical afternoon swim practice and the regional swim meet was almost here. We’ve been training and practicing all season for this event. Every afternoon after school we would go to the YMCA pool to practice. I’ve been working on long distance swimming, such as the freestyle 200 and 500. The night before the regional swim meet arrived, and I happened to get sick. I felt weak, stiff, and exhausted. There was no way I could do well in any event that was going to occur the next day. I took some medicine and had some tea to try and feel better. Nothing really helped. All there was to do was hope. The next day arrived… feeling sick and weak, I went through the day until it was time to go to the swim meet. As we warm up, I began getting a headache and feeling worse, yet felt like I still possessed the capability to carry on with endurance. When the first race came I felt nervous. The whistle blew and I was the last one to dive in from the block. Pacing myself slow and steady, I caught up only making third place. I felt like I could’ve gotten first place if I wasn’t sick, but I was glad that a team member got it instead of another school. The last race came. This was the most important race for me all season; I couldn’t screw up. We got up onto the blocks and once we heard the whistle we dove in. It was terrible. Everyone was in front of me and I was in last for at

As I ventured inside through the entryway. This immense yard used to be quite recently included space looked well past my desires. Two little condos developed were standing confronting each other on each side, in the center was a wellspring running new water. The entire inside of the house was changed, no all the more venturing outside to get some crisp water. It make life considerably less demanding for the ladies to do their day by day shores.

During the swim season of my sophomore year I was at the peak of my swimming career. I was swimming great times and had a very successful season. Prior to the regional swim meet I was qualified and all I had to do was swim my qualifying times to advance to the 1A/2A state swim meet. Exactly one week before the regional meet I broke my foot in two places. I was heartbroken because for a swimmer this is what you train for all year long. I felt like all my hard work and hours in the pool were for nothing. I immediately began physical therapy and told my parents I wanted to try and swim the following Saturday at regionals. My foot was not in a cast, but in a boot. My physical therapist even told me there was no way I would be able to swim at regionals.

Water slowly brushes across the carbon fiber side of the shell, and at this point a sense of familiarity emerges. The rhythmic beating of my pulse fills my ears, working to push away the background and bring my awareness to that of the girl in front of me, my coxswain, and my oar– a true marriage of sorts. I make sure to check that the equipment functions by running my fingers over the bolts of my rigger, the straps of my foot stretchers, and finally, as a ritual, tapping my blade against the water three times. Following this, I allow myself only one opportunity to break the wall between my position in the boat and my surroundings– a glance at each girl in the boats next to me– to remind myself to outpull all of them. The tension rapidly increases as the referee announces that “We have alignment”, otherwise a universal signal to all rowers to mind the impending start of the race. The low voice of my coxswain reminds everyone to adjust their seating position in the boat, sit up straight, and have their shoulders back–the

     "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 remember a time in my life not too long ago when my family and I went white water rafting for the first time. We had been spending some of our summer vacation at a cabin in the Smokey Mountains, close to Gatlinburg, Tennessee. The next day we would experience feelings of exhilarating excitement, with a sense of suspense and anticipation as we rafted down the Nantahala River.

All of my life I have devoted massive amounts of my time to swimming, and it is not an easy sport. I have acknowledged that since day one. It involves essentially every muscle in the human body, dedication, and a plethora of energy. My dedication is all because of a young man with Spina Bifida; however, he does not know that I notice him everyday.