In an astonishing passage of time—seconds, minutes, and years slipping away—I transitioned from being a national champion swimmer and collegiate coach to becoming the mother of an 11-year-old on a swim team. I once dominated the clock; now, it feels as if time is racing past me.
When Jacob began swim lessons at the local YMCA in Burlington, Vermont, at just 2 years old, he adamantly declared that he would never join the swim team. He was resolute: no racing, he insisted, a promise he reaffirmed each year as he advanced through the swim program at a leisurely pace. Last year, while we were in Abu Dhabi, Jacob maintained this slow but steady progress, all the while resisting competition.
From the very beginning, Jacob had a non-racing disposition—taking nearly 36 hours to enter this world. I often joked with my coaching team at James Madison University in 2004 that the sprinter had produced a distance swimmer.
Then, just before our departure from Abu Dhabi in mid-June, Jacob decided, seemingly out of the blue, that he wanted to join the swim team upon our return to Vermont. Without hesitation, I signed him up on the YMCA website, exclaiming, “BOOM! You’re in, kid!” as I suppressed the urge to raise my laptop like a trophy.
During his initial practice sessions, I was taken aback by Jacob’s natural stamina. He swam lap after lap, even when he looked tired, maintaining a steady pace without complaint. He did collide with lane lines and fellow swimmers several times but shrugged it off. His attempts at diving from the starting blocks resulted in belly flops and misplaced goggles. While he wasn’t completely at home in the water, he certainly didn’t seem out of place either.
Then, on the evening of June 23, 2015, the moment I had been eagerly anticipating arrived. Jacob was ready to compete in his first swim meet. A small smile graced his face as he approached the starting block for the 50-yard backstroke. I felt tears streaming down my face as I prepared to fulfill my dual roles as a parent and timer for the event.
The other parents on the YMCA team were unaware of my competitive swimming background—Florida State High School Champion, National Record Holder, Olympic Trials Qualifier. When the head timer explained how to operate the stopwatch, I listened intently, mindful of how I had lived and breathed that device for two decades.
As Jacob swam, his strokes were even and consistent. He managed to stay mostly centered in his lane but turned from his back to his stomach midway through, resulting in disqualification—much to his oblivion. I briefly considered confronting the official over my son’s disqualification in his first race but reminded myself of the sport’s unforgiving nature, much like life itself. I choked up, reflecting on how the lessons I learned in the pool might also benefit Jacob.
Jacob later swam the 50-yard breaststroke, an event that suited him well, much like it had for me. He radiated joy throughout the race, despite finishing last. Afterward, he shook hands with the other competitors, who graciously waited for him to finish before exiting the pool. Unfortunately for me, Jacob was disqualified again for failing to touch the wall with both hands simultaneously, a critical rule in breaststroke.
As I shed more tears for his self-satisfaction, I also thought of my parents, particularly my mother, who dedicated countless hours to supporting my swimming dreams. She took me to early morning practices and swim meets across the country while managing a full-time job and a household. I also remembered my father, a neurologist, who could recall every one of my times and records. Now, as I stood in his place, I aimed to commit my child’s achievements to memory, hoping they would last.
For his final race, Jacob competed in the 50-yard freestyle, which had been my primary event. This sprint is akin to the 50-meter dash on land—victories often decided by mere inches. I had sacrificed years to shave off tenths of seconds to become one of the top swimmers in the state and country. As he approached the block, Jacob paused to tell me he was ready for a hot dog. Nevertheless, he swam with commendable form, finishing next to last but without disqualification.
I hugged him and expressed my pride repeatedly, “I am so proud of you.” More tears fell as I realized I had forgotten to record the time for the swimmer in my lane, using the opportunity to excuse myself. Another parent kindly stepped in.
Jacob dismissed my praises and headed toward the snack bar. I rummaged through my wallet, finding just six quarters and one Rupee. Earlier, we had traveled from the UAE to India to visit the Taj Mahal, a symbol of love. I found it amusing to see that currency represented in this moment at the pool in Vermont, reflecting on our shared experiences, whether in distant lands or right here. Thankfully, $1.50 was enough for one hot dog, and I left the Rupee as a tip. Jacob laughed.
I pondered why I was so emotional at a children’s swim meet. But the answer was clear: I was someone whose life had been defined by speed and water, now witnessing my child dip his toes into those familiar yet challenging waters.
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In summary, my journey from competitive swimmer to supportive parent at my son’s first swim meet was filled with reflections on my past, emotions for my family, and pride in my child’s accomplishments—reminding me that the waters of life are both challenging and rewarding.
Keyphrase: National Champion Swimmer
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