Oh, the joys of being a swim kid! The swim parents I know have been sharing MacKenzi Thibodeaux’s To The Little Girl in the Swim Cap and Goggles, written as a letter from an adult to a child. The adult reminisces about the many joys of summer swim team, telling the little girl, “You are so, so lucky to be a swimmer. I hope that you do not take this time in your life for granted.” It’s signed, “A girl who doesn’t have her swim cap or goggles anymore.”
It’s a sweet article, and many people I know have enjoyed it, but I find it so very sad. The writer believes that the child can only be a swimmer for a limited time, that she can only have her cap and goggles for so long before she has to put them away forever. But that’s not true. I know that’s not true. You can be a swim kid your whole life.
I swam as a child, and I remember all the things Thibodeaux talks about and more: the early morning practices, the travel, the friends. My friend K swam as a child too, and every once in a while we come up with some common memory — like eating Jell-O powder at swim meets. In the 70s and 80s, kids at swim meets would eat powdered gelatin straight out of the little boxes, mouths and fingers dyed bright orange or red or green. Jell-O powder is mostly sugar, and it was supposed to give you a quick energy boost. I don’t think swim kids eat powdered gelatin now — they have gels and sports drinks instead — but they do write their event numbers on their hands and arms so that they don’t miss their races, just like we did. And children still race each other during practice and whack each other with kick boards on birthdays. They still make great friends.
Now I’m old enough to have children of my own, but I’m still a swim kid. I go to the pool, and I see all my swim friends, just like I used to. We talk. We race each other. We don’t usually whack each other with kick boards, but we celebrate birthdays. We have fun.
In some ways, swimming as an adult is better than swimming as a child. The travel is better. Last summer, K and I drove down to Charleston on a Friday afternoon to swim the Lowcountry Splash. We spent the night with friends who fed us a terrific dinner, including a trifle for dessert; then we got up in the dark, ate leftover trifle for breakfast, and swam a beautiful five miles down the Cooper River on Saturday morning. After the race we drove home with the top down, and when we stopped in Columbia, I had a peanut-butter banana bourbon milkshake for lunch. It was called The Elvis, and it was a lot better than Jell-O powder. I got home just over 24 hours after I left, bruised, sunburned, dehydrated, half-drunk, and about as happy as I’ve ever been. There was no child on this earth having more fun than I was.
Thibodeaux writes to the little girl in the swim cap and googles, “Cherish this time you have, time of learning new things and making new friends, because all too soon one thing will lead to another and life will get busy or you will grow up and have to ‘throw in the towel’ on something that defined a major part of you for such a long time.” But why should any of us give up something that defines us? Why should we give up something that makes us happy?
Life does get busy, and we do grow up, but we never have to give up swimming. If you need to, you can take a break; the water will be there when you come back. You can learn new things. You can make new friends. You can be a swim kid your whole life.