Reflective Essay About Swimming

The synchronized swimmer expressed the fear of not being able to achiever her life goal: making it onto the National Olympic team. An additional challenge that she had was proving that she was better than all the other girls trying out and achieving the top ten title. Although competition motivated her, the excessive pressure brought her down and she admitted hating her self and causing self-harm in order to feel better.

He tells me exactly when to stand up and releases me onto an incoming wave. There is absolutely nothing going through my head except for “get feet on board get feet on board get feet on board”. I get my feet onto the board and immediately fall over. Not so bad for the first run. I repeat the battle of getting back to the point in the water where the waves are no longer breaking. I get back onto the board. I am released by our instructor. I get my feet onto the board. I fall over. Rinse and repeat, indefinitely. By the end of our hour long session, my entire body is aching and I haven’t completely ridden to shore while standing on the board. Lauren has a bit more luck and rides in on her knees. I can already see bruises and cuts along my legs and we both feel as if we are going to pass out right there on the beach. We both also conclude that that was the most fun thing either of us has ever done.

“Get up now,” My mom yelled down the hallway. “Hurry or you’ll be late!” My brother and I dreaded waking up early to swim, but we had chosen to commit. Even though I’ve competed every year since first grade, I still struggled. That summer swimming taught me to have stamina, the ability to not quit even though it was hard.

Proposed by Joseph Campell in his book A Thousand Faces, there is a certain archetype that stories seem to follow. This framework is called the Hero's Journey. Elements of his theory are evident in The Swimmer, a short story written by John Cheever about the journey that Neddy Merrill takes to find his way back home. Campbell was studying myths when he came up with the theory, but it is applicable to most, if not all narratives today. The Swimmer is a short story where we see the protagonist, Neddy Merrill, go through the Hero's Journey.

At the ripe age of 18, it was my last year swimming. Sadly, it was also my first. The idea to start swimming came from my boyfriend, who had been doing it his whole life. He thought it would allow us to have more quality time together. Even though I started swimming to spend time with him, I grew to really enjoy the sport and I wanted to get better and better each time I hit the water. I ended up getting really good really quickly because the sport came so natural to me. Although it was my first year, I was already competing in the City Meet, and I wanted to do my best because I knew that it would be my last chance to race.

"No! Mom, STOP! I don't want to do it!" I bawled. My face flushed red , tears streaming down my face as I was backed into a corner. There was no escape, I lunged forward with a death grip around my mother's leg. Burying my face into her jeans, I pleaded one last time, to no avail. Still clinging on to her leg, she drags me over the cruel, tile floor. "Take him," she said nonchalantly, "He'll be fine." With an exasperated look she hands me over to my new swim instructor. I was still hyperventilating, overcome with fear of the water. "Let's wash away those tears!" my teacher said with a smile. Before I knew it, I was submerged beneath the water. It was only for a moment but it seemed like an eternity. Time froze, all the noise

     "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 jog towards the ocean, my heart thumping faster and faster as I get closer. The first splash of water hits me, a cold rush enlivening my whole body. I thrust my joy against the weight of the sea, and climb on. My wetsuit clad legs dangle in the clear blue water, as I squint at what’s in front of me, looking for the perfect wave.

I stood at the top of the Park City water ramps, trying to balance the rational reasons for bowing out against my goal of learning and certifying a backflip on skis. To a barely five-foot eighth grader, the wooden jump seemed like a rickety and terrifying recipe for disaster. I was sure that my ill-fitting life vest would abandon me as I sank to the bottom of the pool, or that I would catch my sharp metal edges on the ramp and slam into the unforgiving concrete. I stood at the top and waited, even though there was no line. I dropped my skis; I felt detached from my body. Thoughts raced through my head. I concentrated on the mechanics of the jump, visualizing the backflip. I fought back intruding images of over-rotating and splatting the

The tepid salt water instantly enveloped me, and within seconds I floated back to the top. I was mystified by what may be lurking beneath my legs, which were plowing back and forth to keep me up straight. I immediately began to disregard the heavy gear I modeled so gauchely,

5:00 am, the alarm wakes me. Struggling into my suit, still damp from yesterday's practice, eyes half-closed, I made my way to the pool deck. Staring and listening to the blue water, I gathered myself to jump. Splash! The cold and chlorinated water awakens my senses. For the next two hours, my teammates and I battle tirelessly against the water. The dreams that most people have when they sleep, I have when I swim.

At the point when the wave at long last drew near me, he let go of my hand and this made me to lose my balance and fall with the force of the wave. When this occurred I remembered my dad picking me up and saying,” See, it wasn’t that bad.” Right then and there I understood that when you fall you just have to get right back up. This made me defeat the trepidation of waves. So as I got up I went further into the sea than I would ever before while my father was standing right besides me. He then laid me on the water with his hands under my stomach so that I wouldn’t drown. He then taught me how to kick and stroke my arms properly. However, this took time to learn. So as a month passed, my parents took me to the shoreline.. However, this time it was unique in relation to the various ones.What made it totally distinctive was the way that I could swim and have the capacity to confront the waves without falling .With my father assisting me, I could swim independent, and not have a trepidation of water. My association with water had made an extremely exceptional association with my dad and how you can defeat

“Breaststroke, backstroke, freestyle,” I would tell me coach every practice before the upcoming swim meet. “These are the three strokes I would like to swim.”

The wind screamed in my ears, or maybe that was me, and my hair flapped all over the place. My limbs reached out in an attempt to slow the fall, to grab hold of something, to cushion the impact. They instead spun me around, and the water hit my back hard. It felt like concrete or falling onto cold solid ground. It knocked the air out of my lungs, my arms stopped flailing. I sunk down, down into the inky water I’d seen from above only moments before. The impact left me shocked; any attempt to bring me to the surface ended. A deep water current must have snatched me up and dragged me down.

Our raft almost sank a few times because of the constant splashing of water into our raft. Each time we passed a stretch of rapids, and especially when we made it to the top of each fall a sense of anticipation would come over me I didn’t know what would happen next. There was always a chance that our raft might hit a boulder and flip, or that someone might fall out. We were always passing these jagged rocks and giant boulders that could have easily flipped our raft or got us stuck. Some of the rocks were sharp enough to give you a bad gash or even break a bone if you hit them with enough force. Many rafts floating aside us were caught on big boulders, and they had a hard time getting there raft loose and back in the water. There were only one or two very unfortunate groups of people that had the misfortune of accidentally flipping their rafts. Our guide kept screaming out orders telling us which way to paddle or lean to keep us from flipping. Luckily, we never did.