Just Get In and Swim

He stared at me, his jaw gaping and his eyes with a look of concern. I’m sure he didn’t know what to do with me at that point — the girl he never saw cry a day before was dissolving in front of his eyes. Goggles on, and filling with tears, face beet red, hunched over with a hole in my stomach, I couldn’t bear to look up.

Just get in and swim.

For any athlete, coaches take more of a mentor or parent-like role at times. For me, my 70+ year-old club swim coach often knew things before my parents, even if he’s still referencing Mark Spitz and other olympic heroes with 1960’s mustaches and goggle-less record-breaking swims.

Erin, you should just get in and swim. No need to say anymore.

Coach John saw me at my best, I called him the day I committed to the University of Nevada (even before my parents, sorry mom), and he saw me at my worst. He was the first person I told when I made my first final at my freshman year conference meet, and the first person I told when life didn’t go the way I had planned.

But, I can’t go to the meet this weekend — my brother has cancer.

I remember how nervous I was to tell my coach I’d be missing the little time trial meet. I remember how he wanted me to try one more time to get under a minute in the 100 back. I remember the words coming out forced, simultaneously closing my throat and sinking rocks into my stomach. I remember everyone’s eyes on me, not knowing what to say.

I remember how much I didn’t want to say the words, knowing that by saying them and admitting to the world my brother had cancer, somehow made it that much more real, as if the diagnosis and impending surgery wasn’t enough.

But most importantly, I remember the advice, or sort command I was given, the advice I carry with me to this day, the advice I follow after bad days and stressful deadlines, the same advice that’s gotten me through breakups, career changes and big life choices.

Just get in and swim.

After the semi-obligatory “it will be okay’s” and “I’m here if you need me’s” came the true help. He handed me my snorkel, and put me in a lane by myself.

Go ahead, swim.

And so I did.

Through tear-filled goggles, and stopping to clear out my snorkel because of a massive case of the ugly-cry’s, I swam. I swam until my shoulders hurt and my mind went blank. I swam until the only thought I had was to put one arm in after another. I swam until I could breathe again.

Forty-five-ish minutes later, I stopped. He knelt down on the pool deck, put a cone to his ear so he could hear me, and we talked.

We talked about life, and lessons learned. He mentioned some athlete from the late 1970’s that I had no idea about. He told me of friends he had and his many pet cats (no exaggeration). He calmed me down by telling me about the water, and how it just knows. But most importantly, he gave me the biggest lesson I could have ever learned.

Sometimes, all you need to do is to get in and swim.