The Great Chesapeake Bay Challenge

A few months ago, I began a specialty blog that was doomed to failure: a training blog for an open water swimming event. Why was this doomed, as I say? For several reasons:

1. It's a special interest blog. Prospective audience becomes much thinner.
2. If my friends are my readers.... it's even thinner than that.
3. How interesting is it to type workout after workout?
4. And of course.. I'm lazy, so regular workouts are really a thing of myth.
   

In any case, my whole purpose was to train for a one mile, open-water swim called The Great Chesapeake Bay Challenge. The Teach did it a few years ago, fresh out of college swimming, and described it as a good (if difficult) experience. But open water swimming has never really appealed to me. I used to swim as a kid when we went to the beach, but the current always made me feel like a weaker swimmer than I was, and I was nervous in the cloudy water. Even in the Caribbean, I couldn't really relax (except during SNUBA but that was just cool, even though I knew I'd be fine. Which I regret, actually. I have no good reason for being uncomfortable.

So I decided I would do the swim, push myself through my fear. Pool training dropped off, however, as I got into the spring, and I got out of shape, but I wasn't going to bag the race. I got a wetsuit (kinda) from a friend: it was a little big, and had short sleeves, stopped at mid-thigh, and was mostly foam. But the water was in the low seventies, so I didn't really need it for warmth. The worst thing I worried about was not finishing: I didn't want to be one of those people who has to stop at a rescue boat and be brought in. And there were people who had to do that (one guy only made it fifty yards, according to spectator HalfDozen).

As part of the first wave (a group of one hundred people, the first of four), I ducked under the green mesh fence with the rest of the group, padded my way barefoot across grass, then sand, then some slippery blue plastic they'd laid down over the start/finish pad. As each person crossed the line, the microchipped ankle-bracelet caused the machine to record their passing with a resounding, nasal whoop, reminiscent of the start of a police siren. We stood in the murky water (ew, that was trash) for a good ten minutes while they waited to start, officials trying to reign in people not willing to forego warmup (a disqualifying effort, they announced in the pre-race meeting).

Finally, it was time to go. I let myself hang back, not wanting to be in the front (where I knew people would just swim over me) or in the middle (think of what happens when that many people, all standing together, suddenly dive into the horizontal: I didn't want to get kicked in the face either) and the start was ok. After about three hundred yards, though, I was too tired to sight the bouys: I had to resort to sighting fellow swimmers, and throwing in a few breaststrokes every so often. I'm not sure if mixing my strokes helped me or hurt me: it was slower, but more comfortable with the gentle waves that were rocking the bay that morning. After that, it was just comfortable: I didn't panic, I wasn't dying (I wasn't swimming fast, either) and I wasn't afraid. Just.. swim around one buoy. Swim around the next. Kick the bottom a few times. (Whoops, shallow there) Swim the last. Drag myself up the beach.

I was tired. The Teach passed me and was waiting, so she was the recipient of my first "I never want to do that again." But I didn't really mean it. It was ok. Even the occasional mouthful of diesel (clean up the bay, assholes) could have been worse. And I did something I didn't think I'd be able to do: I finished. And in the top half.

It was a good day. And I had a good night's sleep later. Next year, now that I know what to expect.. there'll be more training.

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On aspiration, philosophy, and relief.

Cause when push comes to shove you taste what you’re made of
You might bend ‘til you break, 'cause it’s all you can take.
On your knees you look up, decide you’ve had enough
You get mad, you get strong, wipe your hands, shake it off
Then you stand
--Rascal Flatts,"Stand"

If you're still reading, and wondering why I'm starting a blog post with song lyrics (when I've vowed so many times that most people who do the same should be punched in the head)... it really is me. The safety word is "Hyacinth." I have not been kidnapped, lobotomized, and replaced on this earth by aliens (or bicycling missionaries) poised at the edge of a coup against society.

It's just been a long couple of weeks.


I passed my qualifying exam, and I'm very, very relieved.

I didn't really appreciate until later what I had been thinking, while I was waiting in the hallway for their verdict, the memory of my blank silences and dry-mouth stuttered explanations fresh in my own ears: what would I have done differently? The logical answers came of course.. study longer.. study smarter.. finish the lists of possible questions I'd come up with, and then study those. But the priorities that had actually taken precedence over this plan of mine in the week leading up to the test.. my family and my friends.. were never once called into question. Not for a second did I wish I had locked myself away in a room, ignoring the people who I care most, when they needed me.

Over the last few months, the concept of success, hard work, the need to excel in my 'profession' have become more important to who I want to become as a person. But I never, ever want to be a person who puts work above the needs of those closest to them. What kind of success would that be?

The way I prioritized these things without even thinking didn't actually sink in as important until I was reading a book the next evening that Half-dozen lent me, called the five people you meet in heaven by Mitch Albom. Its not a book about religion, as Sideshow assumed when I showed it to him. At least, it wasn't for me. It's a book about self-reflection.

"Sacrifice," THE CAPTAIN said. "You made one. We all make them. But you were angry over yours. You kept thinking about what you lost.
"You didn't get it. Sacrifice is a part of life. It's supposed to be. Its not something to regret. It's something to aspire to. Little sacrifices. Big sacrifices. . . .
" . . . Sometimes when you sacrifice something really precious, you're not really losing it. You're just passing it on to someone else."

There are big sacrifices. Going to war, regardless of whether you support the cause or not, would be one. Giving up your life to your children, to really make them the first priority, would be another. And there are little ones. But whether great or small, they're made every day when we make a choice. And, relieved as I am that I passed.. I'm more affected by the knowledge that when opportunity was provided to question such a choice, I didn't. It's easy to be a selfish person, to rationalize other people out of the equation when considering my own hopes and fears. But because of this one thing.. maybe there's hope for me.

I'm very, very relieved (if not mildly self-righteous. We'll see how long this lasts.).

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