I, Mermaid

I am living proof that Hans Christian Andersen’s 1836 story about a sea creature sacrificing her tailfin to walk among mortals is a cautionary tale, if not a real one.

Half way through a recent 2-mile swim, smack dab in the middle of the 25-yard pool, I arrived at what felt like a remarkable conclusion: I am living proof that Hans Christian Andersen’s 1836 story about a sea creature sacrificing her tailfin to walk among mortals is a cautionary tale, if not a real one.

For the second half of my lunchtime swim, I used fins to kick while I carefully weighed my missteps on land against those of Andersen’s title character. Fortunately, unlike her, I’d found my way back to the water before facing a foamy demise.

Walking away from the pool at the University of South Florida in 1986 had felt like a thousand daggers in my soul — not the soles of my feet, as had been the little mermaid’s cross to bear. I’d put thousands of hours into the water, from ages 2 to 20, and had no idea to how be a land mammal. Indeed, I had no idea how to be.

In exchange for the chance to roam the Earth, the little mermaid’s tongue had been cut out, which silenced her siren’s call. I’d gone under the knife to repair a brutally torn rotator cuff, which put an end to my calling as one of Florida’s top swimmers.

I was a state champion, an NCAA champion, a 17-time All American and an Olympic Trials qualifier in the 50-meter freestyle. Who would I be out of the water?

My identity changed with each new landscape. I felt especially rocky in the arid hills of East Africa, where I taught English as a Peace Corps Volunteer. One of my jobs was coaching the cross-country team — truly an exercise in futility.

While my Kenyan students ran ahead, I struggled to catch to my breath while calling out tips for improving their speed and gait. My unnecessary suggestions went unheard, rendering me as mute as the little mermaid had been on land. Missing the water, and the strength it gave me, I started pouring copious of amounts of liquid courage inside of me.

Taking up residence on the Korean peninsula a year later literally put an even deeper divide between the old and new me. I’d moved to Seoul to teach English and to see the 1988 Olympic swimming events in person. I watched, stranded in the stands, as some of my former competitors raced for the title of “fastest woman in the water.” For many months afterward, I drowned by sorrows in local bars with soldiers on leave from the DMZ.

But it wasn’t until I reached the desert sands of Abu Dhabi in 2015 that I saw what drinking from sea to shining sea had done to me. Nearly three decades of alcohol abuse had turned my lean frame into an amorphous mass. My blood pressure had gone from a healthy 110/60 to a dangerous 155/99. I was depressed, and medicated for it. What I could only describe as a “sea of lonely” threatened to take me under for good.

In 2015, I was sitting on the shores of the Persian Gulf when I realized the time had come to let go of alcohol. The next few weeks were a blur of suffering and despair. A situation I navigated alone. Every time the desire to drink washed over me, I imagined myself overpowering the waves with a strong and efficient stroke.

Back in the United States two months later, I found my way to the pool at the University of Vermont, and crawled in. I could only swim a few lengths at first. And my ancient swimsuit was so tight that it cut off circulation to my legs. I kept going, adding a few extra yards with each subsequent swim.

Within six weeks I was up to 2,000 yards and my blood pressure was down to 123/83. I bought a new Speedo in a size smaller. I’d tried other kinds of exercise over the years, none of which had the same effect on me. Yoga seemed to increase my angst, partly because I couldn’t sync the length of my inhale with my exhale. In the water, swimmers (and whales and dolphins) blow air out for much longer than they take air in — a habit/phenomenon not easily undone.

Running had proved futile, too, and not just in Kenya. Swimmers tend to have hyper-flexible ankles from kicking which don’t stand up well to repeated impact on terra firma. Between the sprains and the shin splints, I was sidelined more often than not.

Besides, my fast twitch muscle fibers weren’t interested in a protracted pace on another element altogether. Nor did I have the Earth-bound proprioception to excel at martial arts. After one roundhouse kick, I hit the ground. No sparring partner necessary — on land, my own worst enemy.

Back in the pool, I am well and whole again. No more fighting gravity, or my demons. Every inch of my genepool is programmed to swim. And as Andersen’s story goes, my very survival depends upon being in the water — not just my identity.