The Water Round

The day of the Family Olympics Water Division, I dressed in my blue swimsuit and trotted down to the lake, where Uncle Tom was stretching in his rippled speedo. His hairy chest wobbled up and down as he struggled to touch his toes. I look away, disgusted at the sight. The sky was as blue as a cerulean crayon, white clouds skimming the horizon liked stretched cotton balls. I uncapped the sunscreen and sprayed my bare arms before a stampede of cousins come dashing down, dressed in bikinis and floating rings. But there he was. Lucas. Lucas had trained, back in Colorado, to become an Olympic swimmer. He had been swimming, every morning, for about an hour. Practicing. I only practiced 30 minutes in the morning, and only took a conditioning class back home. We were the top competitors. The swimmers lined up in the shallow water. Though I was only covered up to my waist, younger family members were practically drowning in the chin-deep water. When Aunt Autumn blows her whistle, I kick off of the sandy lake floor and position my foot on a leg of the dock to push off. I spiral through the murky water. I feel so alive, as I see fish scattering below me through my purple goggles. When I am feet away from the far dock, I curl into the smallest ball possible and spin. My bare foot grips the dock's post as I push off. I streamline through the waves, 'squeezing the cheese' as Coach Geoff instructed me to back home. The flip turn was extremely over-rehearsed, but it all paid off as I streamed forward, pushing off the minuscule post. Lucas is ahead of me, but barely. I cycle my arms frantically as I perform the crawl stroke. I can see his knees. Then his hips. He, too, is swimming freestyle. It's the fastest stroke. I can see his shoulders. His head. I kick as hard as I can. Think of everything you love. Do this... For them. My legs become a kicking machine as I thrust one arm forward, feeling for one of the dock's legs. Everything around me goes dark, as if I've floated under a cloud. Where sunlight can't exist. I continue kicking, determined to win, and emerge on the other side of the dock, breathless. I stand up and see Lucas sitting on the other side of the dock with his face in a beach towel. Uncle Tom has just now reached the far dock, and 2-year-old Rebecca is not even there in her pink arm floaties. I laugh as I pull myself up onto the dock. I don't care if I won anymore. I had fun, isn't that all that matters? Aunt Autumn hands me a blue ribbon, and I step up onto a tree trunk. Lucas sulkily accepts a red one and takes his place next to me. "Well, Lucas," I smile. "I guess you need a bit more training before you become the new Michael Phelps."