Feast After Famine: One mile

Before I walked to the water's edge to start my mile swim, I told Kent not to look for me to stumble back up the beach for at least an hour. 

"Take care of the kids," I also said. You know, in case I die. 

I cannot overstate how worked up I'd made myself over the days leading up to the Chesapeake Bay swim. It seemed like I stumbled upon one drowning story after another and, of course, taken collectively they were a neon sign flashing: WARNING! DANGER! DO NOT ATTEMPT!

It's not that I can't swim a mile; I can and have in this exact race three times before. But every time it's been a chore marked by swollen waves, oil slicks, kicks and hits from other swimmers and breathless self-doubt. 

The others times I had at least trained with multiple trips to the pool, though no amount of lap swimming can prepare you for an open-water bay swim, especially a swim in choppy conditions with a strong current that pushes you back four feet for every two feet forward you move. 

But I didn't even have the lap swims to fall back on this year. Over the past few months, I'd gone to the indoor pool a handful of times. 

So, why do it? 

A barista at our local coffee shop suffered a stroke a few days ago. He's an incredibly kind, devilishly funny and fashionable man, in his mid-40s I'm guessing, whose life changed from one day to the next. He's recovering well, by all accounts, and doesn't have significant damage. He was lucky. 

I do this swim despite the fear and push my body in other absurd events like the Tough Mudder because I can. And I don't know how much longer I can say that. I'm sure it's some sort of underlying anxiety issue, but I'm keenly aware — always — that this power and strength and flexibility and life I have can be taken away in an instant. 

So, I stood in the waiting area next to a safety fence and leaned on Kent for support. I fought back tears and trembled from my core to my fingertips. 

"Have fun," he said before I walked off. And I did! I got bumped a few times and certainly felt breathless but I wasn't plagued by doubts. The water was remarkably calm and there didn't seem to be any noticeable current to fight. Just wide open space and buoys in the distance and the simple counting of strokes and breaths. 

Ten breaths of freestyle, then I allowed myself a rest with 10 breaststroke lengths. Back and forth. Back and forth. My arms swept over my head and my hands splashed the water. 

One, two, three, four...

If I got too tired, if I struggled for a breath big enough to power me on, I just switched back to breaststroke. In years past, that alone would have made me panic, planted seeds that maybe I couldn't finish. But this year I didn't scold myself. I just kept swimming. I don't know why. I'm sure the smooth water helped. Maybe I'm just finally acting like an adult.

As I powered through the final leg of the swim, I realized that my body felt stronger than it did in any of the previous races. My cardio conditioning might have been off, but my arms and legs could have kept on moving. I credit this entirely with a new teacher who started training my fitness class about a year ago. That man has whipped me into shape, no doubt. 

Until yesterday, the fastest I ever completed the swim in was 32:59. That was in 2002. Two years ago, it took me 44:38. 

When I walked up the beach and saw the time clock I gasped: 31:42. 

I took a photo of an older woman and her friend after the race. Somehow, the topic of the 4.4-mile swim came up. It was about to get started across the bay and in a few hours, the first swimmers would be walking up the beach on the Eastern Shore, thankful to have made it such a long way. 

"One mile is enough for me," I told her. 

"Me too," she said. "Although, I don't know, maybe I'll do it to celebrate my 60th birthday!"

I'm never going to do the long swim; I know my limitations. But a mile at 60? Fingers crossed.