For many years, four of our kids swam competitively. The whole swim thing began by four of them signing up with the neighborhood swim team and then a year-round swim team, later the high school swim team and the USA club swim team and for many years, we spent every week-end in natatoriums throughout the city watching our kids race. I have a lot of metaphors comparing swimming to life, but none so much as the “swim with passion” story I’m about to tell.
One of my friends from this time period is quite an impressive person. Not only was she an olympic swimmer for West Germany back in the day, but she was also a pilot (originally a trained astronaut. Her husband is also a retired astronaut) AND an anesthesiologist. The two of them have three kids who are my own kids’ ages, and that is how I met this couple because our kids swam together for years.
For those who don’t know, the life of a swim parent involves waking up at the crack of dawn and herding kids into a minivan destined for a pool of some sort. For several years, before my kids could drive themselves, I spent many a summer morning on a pool chair, bleary-eyed, holding a cup of coffee as the sun rose, watching a series of little heads bob up and down, back and forth, across a pool for hours. Whistles blew, coaches yelled, and occasionally, one of the kids would yell, “MOM!” to ask me for a drink of water or to fetch some lost goggles.
So, I was doing that one day when I saw my friend’s son—who at the time was about eight or nine—suddenly stop swimming. I glanced up and watched him. He stood up because they were in the shallow end, and then held out a hand to stop the swimmer behind him, who was dutifully swimming freestyle and about to run into him. One arm up, back down, the kid went. The other arm up, back down. Robotic. Head down. At the time, I remember knowing, subconsciously, that there were some kids who didn’t particularly want to be swimming, yet were, nevertheless. Maybe their parents made them or bribed them. Maybe they had to swim or they wouldn’t be allowed to play video games later in the day, I have no idea, but they clearly weren’t into it. This was one of those kids. Arm up. Arm down. Breathe. Arm up, arm down. Breathe. Slowly progressing across the pool.
My friend’s son held out his hand and the kid stopped and stood up, confused.
“Hey,” the son said. “Hey. You aren’t swimming with passion.” He said it simply, like a teacher would do.
The kid took off his goggles and stared at the son. He didn’t say a word.
“Everything you do in life, you have to do with passion,” he said. He put his own goggles back on. “So, swim with passion!”
And with that, he took off and started swimming again. Graceful, electric, and alive.
The other kid also started swimming again, but I wouldn’t say he knew what to make of my friend’s son or his advice. He put his head down and started plodding along in the water, one arm, then the other. Still dutiful. By contrast, my friend’s son seemed to be putting everything he had into the water, into his stroke, into being better each time.
Years later, I told my friend that this happened and she had no idea her son had said this or where he got the idea. My guess is from his parents, either one of them, even if they don’t remember it. All I know is that it made a huge impact on me that day. The message here is to do everything we do with passion. Everything.