In what feels like the blink of an eye—seconds, minutes, and years—I transitioned from being a national champion swimmer and swim coach to cheering for my 11-year-old son, Ethan, at his first swim meet.
Gone are the days of racing against the clock; nowadays, it feels like time is racing past me.
Ethan’s swimming journey began at the local YMCA in Burlington, Vermont when he was just two years old. He was adamant: swimming competitions were not for him. “No racing,” he insisted, a mantra he repeated each year, progressing through swim levels at a leisurely pace. Even during our time in Abu Dhabi, where he continued to swim with the Gulf Swim School, his aversion to racing remained steadfast.
Ethan had always taken his time—he spent nearly 36 hours in the womb before making his grand entrance. I joked with my team at the college where I coached in 2004 that a sprinter had given birth to a distance swimmer.
Then, just before we left Abu Dhabi in mid-June, Ethan surprised me by announcing he wanted to join the swim team once we returned home. I jumped at the opportunity and registered him on the YMCA website faster than I could contain my excitement.
As I watched Ethan during his first practice, I was taken aback by his natural endurance. He swam lap after lap, even when fatigue set in. He maintained a steady pace, never speeding up or slowing down, and despite a few collisions with lane lines and other swimmers, he shrugged it off. His dives from the starting blocks resulted in belly flops and goggle mishaps—definitely not the smoothest swimmer, but he was finding his groove.
Then came June 23, 2015, the day I had been waiting for—Ethan was set to swim in his first competition. 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 balanced my duties as both a mom and a timer for the event.
The other parents had no clue about my past as a Florida State High School Champion, National Record Holder, and Olympic Trials Qualifier. When the head timer showed me how to use the stopwatch, I kept my history to myself—after all, I had spent 20 years living and dying by that device.
Ethan’s strokes were steady and consistent, keeping him mostly centered in the lane. Unfortunately, he turned from his back to his stomach halfway through, resulting in an immediate disqualification—a fact he remained blissfully unaware of.
I briefly considered confronting the official for disqualifying my son in his very first race, but I had to remind myself that swimming, like life, can be unforgiving. The lessons I’ve gleaned from the pool have shaped my life, and I hoped for the same for Ethan.
Next up was the 50-yard breaststroke, a race that was once my forte. Despite finishing last, Ethan radiated joy throughout the swim, even shaking hands with the competitors next to him after finishing. I was relieved to see them wait for him to complete his race. Unfortunately, he was disqualified again for not touching the wall with both hands, a requirement in breaststroke.
Tears welled up again, but they were tears of pride. I was grateful for his self-satisfaction despite the outcomes. I thought of my parents, who had supported me through two decades of competition, especially my mom, who juggled early morning and afternoon practices while managing our household.
My heart ached for my father, a neurologist, who had memorized all my times and records. Now, I found myself in his place, determined to remember Ethan’s achievements as they happened.
In his final race, Ethan faced the 50-yard freestyle, my signature event. The excitement of a sprint akin to the 50-meter dash was palpable. As he approached the starting block, he paused to tell me he was ready for a hot dog. Despite that, he swam with great form, finishing next to last but without a disqualification this time.
I enveloped him in a hug, repeating, “I’m so proud of you.” More tears flowed. I had forgotten to note the time for the swimmer in my lane, using it as an excuse to step back and let another parent take over.
Ethan waved off my praise, heading straight for the snack bar. I rummaged through my wallet, pulling out six quarters and a single Rupee—a reminder of our recent trip to India, where we visited the Taj Mahal. It felt fitting to carry that memory to a pool deck in Vermont. I chuckled at the absurdity of it all, whether in this moment or on another shore.
As luck would have it, $1.50 was just enough for one hot dog. I left the Rupee as a tip, and Ethan laughed.
I wondered why I was so emotional at a child’s swim meet, but the answer was clear: I had dedicated my youth to speed and water, and now I was witnessing my child dip his toes into those same, challenging yet rewarding waters.
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In summary, my journey from a national champion swimmer to a supportive parent at my son’s swim meet was an emotional rollercoaster filled with pride, nostalgia, and hope for the future.
Keyphrase: National Champion Swimmer to Swim Meet Parent
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