High School Swim Class: The Horrors That Were

Based on the semi-true adventures of Molly George

Did you even know that Katie Ladecky set a new American record in the 400 IM on Friday night? The 2017 Pac-12 swimming and diving championships took place last week, and Stanford's women didn't disappoint. The Cardinal brought home their 20th title championship, setting five American records and six Pac-12 records. Quite impressive. 

Photo: Los Angeles Times

Whenever I watch these swimming greats, I can't help but to reminisce on my own swimming experience. High school was a long time ago now, but not even the over chlorinated water of my high school pool was strong enough to wash away those memories.

What's that? You didn't know I was on a high school swim team?

Well that's because I wasn't.

My memories were formed in a freshman level P.E. class that everyone in the school was required to take, and every time I think of swimming, the terrible memories of that class flood my mind, just like the water that would flood my lungs every time I accidentally wandered too far into the deep end.

I don't know what soulless monster first conceived of the idea of a required swim class, but I know that one's inability to swim was no way out of it. Nor was a highly sensitive skin condition. The only way to get out of it was if you had religious objections, but despite my pleas, my mom refused to call the school and tell a slightly fabricated story about how my religious convictions did not permit me to wear a bathing suit in public.

And so it was, I, Molly Cinderblock George, was forced to take swimming along with everyone else.

I remember the first day in the pool, our teacher told us to swim across the shallow end to the best of our abilities. I knew that when my turn came I would have two options: swim to the best of my ability, or walk across the shallow end of the pool. I could feel the dread mounting as student after student, like the most elegant Angelfish,  swam effortlessly and gracefully across the clear, glassy water.

I'd be more like a Clownfish. Except without the fish part, because fish could swim.  

Finally, it was my turn. The moment of truth. I could feel the blood rushing to my face as I took one step after another across that tiled pool floor, eyes staring at my feet, careful not to glance up at my on looking classmates.

As embarrassing as it was to simply walk, I knew that it was still less embarrassing than the alternative -thrashing around like a drunk bat with no legs. Finally, when I reached the half-way point, I looked up to my teacher, threw up my hands, and gave him the most imploring "are-you-for-real-going-to-make-me-go-on-can't-you-just-end-this-please???" look any human has ever given to another. To his credit, he complied and called the next person in line.

Well, I was informed that I didn't pass the preliminary check and would only be permitted to swim half-laps, as I may not be able to traverse the deep end.

Thank goodness!

I wouldn't have to go in the deep end! Embarrassing? Yes. But better to be embarrassed than to be drowned.

And so it was, I survived the first day of swim class. A wave of relief swept over me as I scurried toward the locker room, past my classmates, their eyes cast down in silent judgment.

I quickly jumped into the locker room shower, whose water alternated between scorching hot and freezing cold, with no in between:

Scalding coffee, bucket of ice. Scalding coffee, bucket of ice. Scalding coffee....

I couldn't take it any longer. I turned off the water before my skin began to boil off and, in the limited amount of time I had, changed into regular clothes for my next class.

But unfortunately for fourteen-year-old me, the horror of high school swim class didn't end when the second period bell rang.

The nauseating smell of chlorine had penetrated so deeply into my skin that even as I sat in my freshman level math class on the second floor in the wing opposite the first floor pool, I felt as though someone had hidden an open bottle of Clorox directly under my desk. I reached into my backpack with my bright red, scale covered hand, searching for a writing utensil. That Chlorine water wasn't exactly the miracle cure for my eczema. I shifted in discomfort, trying to keep warm as the pool water from my un-dried hair drenched the back of my T-shirt. I was already a dork, and my post-swimming appearance wasn't making things any better. I could feel the individual hairs on my head curl up and then shoot away in every direction, as if even they wanted to get away from me. I tried to mat down the resulting cobweb of frizz, running my reptilian fingers through it over and over, but to no avail.

The initial sense of relief I had felt when I had gotten out of that wretched P.E. class quickly subsided as I realized that I would have to do it again the day after tomorrow. And alternating every other day after that until the end of the semester. A sick feeling welled in the middle of my chest, and as I walked out of Algebra I, I felt as though I was going to burst into tears.

By the time my second swim class rolled around, the eczema on my face had reached its full beauty, my hands looked like they were made out of cornflakes, and my legs were beginning to feel itchy as well. If you are not fortunate enough to have experienced eczema yourself, just imagine someone took a cheese grater, grated off all the skin on your hands, legs and face, rolled you in an overgrown cactus patch, then threw you into a giant bucket of hydrogen peroxide. Every time I entered the water, I felt like my entire body was a giant eyeball and someone was squeezing lemon juice into it.

But that was not the worst part...it was not the worst part by far.

The worst part was that, unlike the other students, when I stared into the water from above, I did not see my own reflection. Instead, I saw the hazy outline of the Angel of Death, his empty shadow of a face staring back at me from just beneath the water, lurking there waiting, always waiting...

I splashed away his face with my hand, the image breaking into a thousand drops of water and vanishing in the ensuing ripples. It would be OK. I didn't even have to go into the deep end. I would just have to go near it. And that was fine. I was fine with that. I could do it. I wasn't worried about it....

...I swallowed hard.

I planted my feet against the pool wall, bent my legs, and launched myself away from it taking one stroke after another, as our teacher had shown...until...oh no! I think I went too far. I was in the deep end! I was going to drown! I thrashed and kicked until my feet hit the bottom of the pool and...oh, never mind. I was still very much in the shallow end of the pool. I guess three strokes only got me a quarter of the way across. I stood there in the shallow end and did some quick calculations. I could probably take another ten strokes before the water got to a point where it would be above my head...

Mmmmm.... Not worth the risk. It would be best to turn back now. I swam the three strokes back to the wall. Phew. I had done it. I had survived the first lap. I went to the back of the line in my lane.

The next time I went four strokes. Actually, this really wasn't so bad. I worked my way up to five strokes, then six, until... Oh crud! This time I really had gone slightly too far!

I felt the man I had seen in my reflection reach up from the depths of the pool and grab my foot with his icy cold hand. I kicked to get free as he pulled me deeper and deeper, closer to his realm. I stomped at his hollow hood over and over again, kicking and thrashing as his black robes slowly engulfed me. This was it. The water poured into my mouth. I tried desperately to break free, but his specter was at my throat, my arms and legs were tangled in his robes, and... LIGHT! My head burst above the water as I gasped for air and was quickly pulled under again. 

I tore the dark robes from around my arms, put my hands together in front of me, then pulled them apart with all my strength, parting the water before me, lurching forward. Another stroke and a hard kick of my feet and I managed to break free of his grip. It wasn't the most beautiful stroke, but I think it would be enough, just barely enough... My feet landed safely on the tiles below, my head above water. I gasped in the precious air, sputtering out water as I wondered how long the battle had lasted...hours surely, possibly even days. I looked around ready to explain to the concerned crowd that I was OK...But, what the...? I almost drowned and no one even noticed???   

I guess it wasn't that long after all, maybe only like 2-3 seconds. I swam back to the end of the line. With a new sense of generosity, I let a few people cut me in line. And then a few more.

"Oh you can go ahead of me. So can you, really, it's no big deal, go ahead...Oh I think you were ahead of me. I need to use the restroom, no need to save my spot in line!"

Finally, our teacher released us to go shower.

Scalding coffee, bucket of ice. Scalding coffee, bucket of ice.

I had survived day two of swim class. A wave of relief. Closely followed by dread. I'd have to do it again the day after tomorrow.

And so it was, I lived the rest of the semester in a constant state of anxiety, smelling like chlorine and trying to control my hair, my face turning into a gross giant rash, until finally, the last day of swim class came.

The day that I would have to swim four laps, four different strokes...And go into the deep end four different times.

If I didn't pass, I'd have to take the class again.

As I walked to the edge of the pool for our test, my nerves began to short circuit. My legs turned to mush, stomach acid began to creep up my throat into my mouth. I could feel it burn the back of my throat, the same way the pool water burned my sensitive skin. I tried to swallow, but my esophagus was quickly constricting. My heart was racing faster than Usain Bolt and my hands were shaking like a maraca. The pressure was weighing down on my chest, my shoulders, everything until my jelly legs could barely support it. I all but collapsed into the water.

After my all too graceful entry, I pulled myself together.  I was going to do this. I was going to pass this test!

And, I don't know if the prospect of enduring another quarter of high school swim class gave me super human powers, or if it was God's grace alone, but somehow, someway, I did. I passed! I, in real actual life, swam four laps in a real pool with real actual water!

I would not have to take swim class again! I was done!

I was on cloud nine. My heart sang and my soul shone brighter than every star in the sky! It was the happiest moment of my 14-year-old life.

A few weeks later, a close friend of mine was telling me about how they were trying to get more girls to go out for the swim team. She suggested that I try out.

Well, I mean I did pass swim class and I could do four different strokes....

....But some things are better left to people like Katie Ledecky.