By Molly M. Jones 
There is something about swim kids. Early morning after early morning, lap after lap, flip turn after flip turn. They often watch the sun both rise and set from the water. Dressed in pajamas or sweats and fuzzy slippers or slides most days. Why get dressed when you are just in the pool again in a few hours? Prepared for a nap at any opportunity, whether in a car, on a school desk, or on the bleachers before practice.
There is nothing better than chlorine to make hair a lovely shade of green, leading to the necessity of buying REALLY EXPENSIVE shampoo. But chlorine is also a substitute for expensive skincare routines, cures every illness, and takes the place of perfume or cologne. And, wow, these kids can eat! Michael Phelps—the GOAT—has famously estimated he was eating between 8,000 and 12,000 calories a day at the peak of his career.
What most people do not see under the parkas and Ugg boots is the time these kids spend in silence, staring at black lines at the bottom of the pool, nothing to interrupt the thoughts in their own heads but the strain of the workout, exhaustion, and heavy breathing. Sometimes more than six hours of the day are spent with no access to their iPhones and no one to jump in and do it for them. It is so much more than the events written in Sharpie down arms and legs, crazy small racing suits (“paper suits” in my day have been replaced by “tech suits” now, but the result is still a suit that may take the effort of more than one person to put on in disgusting locker rooms), parkas, fuzzy boots, and an insane amount of snacks. “I can’t, I have practice” becomes part of the soundtrack of their lives, and that matters.
The accumulated miles and lack of any discernible social life form strong and self-reliant individuals, who find it hard to lean on anyone else, and are perhaps too quick to own a mistake or a failure. The only people who understand their lives are other swimmers and their coaches. It can be isolating and harsh, but it can be life-changing.
And when these kids hang up their googles for the last time and throw away the musty-smelling practice equipment, it is a loss so unexpected, the grief knocks many down. It is difficult to fill the void of race adrenaline, the sheer challenge of the sport, and the extreme scheduling of every minute of the day.
The water has saved my life more than once. God knew I needed it. I needed all of it, the quiet reflection, the physical exertion, the people, and the places that made my swimming career. The beautiful link to my baptism and the holy water I cross on my forehead every Sunday before mass is not lost on me. The water cleansed me in baptism, and the pool has given the same silent opportunity for connection to myself and to God.
The water saved my life when I was a kid with undiagnosed ADD and expectations for my life that were much higher than any child should carry on her shoulders. I had no idea how to manage my emotions or a father who did not expect to deal with any of the mess that surrounds a growing family. When he was home, life was expected to be calm, orderly, and out of his way. I knew that when chaos was introduced, anger came out, or, worse than anger, I would wake to the complete silence that meant my father had left. Without hours away from home, the attention of coaches, and an outlet for the noise and energy that threatened to land me in trouble over and over again, I am confident my life would have taken a different direction. Swimming was an outlet for my stress, my emotions, and my energy. So long as I had practice, I was able to be calm, focus on my studies, bring order to my brain, and stay away from the things that would have upset the delicate balance that kept my home life safe and uneventful.
The water was my entire world when the outside world seemed to fall apart in high school. I did not realize it at the time, but when my family was falling apart at home, my stability came from a church that was consistent Sunday after Sunday, my teammates who were also always at practice, and a swim coach who, despite his yelling and hard demeanor, sincerely cared. I kept much of my family life between me, the black lines at the bottom of the pool, and God. It was embarrassing and painful to think that anyone would know what my family was going through behind closed doors. I was raised to believe I should handle things quietly and on my own. It was enough to bring down even the strongest adult, much less a teenager trying to decide how to pass AP tests and where to attend college. At the end was a graduation that was celebrated as my parents moved us from one side of the country to the other to try to put their lives back together again. But I had earned a swimming scholarship to attend school far away from it all. The water saved me and provided a path out.
And the water was my savior again when I was well past my competition days, in middle age, struggling with confusion about my health, my family, and my career. At almost 48 years old, menopause and life changes led to my being unable to control my emotions and my life again. I was exhausted, unmotivated, and so sad. A failed career move while trying to raise two teenagers to be happy and successful humans led to fears that I was only making things worse for my family. Apparently, imposter syndrome never goes away. This combination of anxiety, fear, and extreme self-doubt brought me to some of the lowest points of my life. The fear that I was failing everyone and everything led to dark thoughts—never of ending it all, but often of just disappearing, driving until I was so far away I couldn’t hurt anything.
Then finally, after years of considering it, I got back in the water again.
Slowly at first, a bit timid. Masters swim practice, just a few hours a week. I started in the far lane, against the wall, staying out of everyone’s way, focused on slipping into the old rhythm of the water. The lines at the bottom of the pool and the light reflecting off the surface of the water were familiar. Even though I lacked endurance and could not accomplish close to what I thought I should, the strokes were the same familiar cadence. While I struggled with accepting my limits and trying to get back into some semblance of shape, the water changed everything.
The water gives me a few short hours on even the busiest days when I cannot check my phone or do anything about anyone else’s needs, when text messages and emails go unanswered until after practice, and when all I can do is keep swimming. It gives me time to turn off my brain, turn down the noise, and think through a single issue at a time. It keeps my body moving, although much more slowly than it once did, and keeps my head from spiraling out of control.
The water that has saved me more times than I even know brought me back to myself once again.
by Jackie Boeheim 
