The crush of swimmers in Friday's warmup pool sent us searching all twenty lanes for an opening. Before jumping in, we ran into Rocky Mountain teammates who warned us about the slippery metal facing on the far walls—already responsible for slips on the 400 free relay. Aden and I raised our eyebrows at each other, then plunged into the waves to test the competition pool, our sleep-deprived haze broken by near-panic.
Aden's 100 breast came first. Already wedged into her new tech suit, she fired off her best time in four years. After a loop through the cool-down pool, Aden and my friend Ellen joined me in the locker room to wrestle me into my own new suit—brick red material so small it seemed impossible it would clear my knees, let alone rise over my rear and hips. Somehow, with a woman on either side hiking the fabric over the Crisco-style spray I'd lubed with, they lifted me at the hips until I hung suspended like a puppet on strings, the suit inching upward.
After adjusting the suit again in warmup, I raced my 50 fly and came close to my goal time, earning second place and posting what currently ranks second in the country for my age group. Disappointed in missing the mark, I threw everything into the 100 free, where altitude training helped me push through the back half to a time I haven't seen in seven years. A talented swimmer from Wisconsin Masters who'd been in several of my races grasped my hand at the finish. I lifted both our hands skyward—relief and joy pouring through me.
The community of swimmers and families sustained and astonished us over three days. Rob and William made the flight to Greensboro to cheer us on, their voices rising above the din each time Aden or I stepped onto the blocks—a reminder that the best support comes from those who watched us overcome every moment of doubt. I encountered a former Harvard teammate and classmate from New England who recognized me despite thirty-four intervening years and a name change. Aden and I rubbed shoulders with former Cal star Reece Whitley. Eight-time Olympic gold medalist Jenny Thompson anchored the relay next to ours in the 45+ mixed free competition.
Even more poignant than the Olympians were encounters with new friends waiting poolside between races. I met a remarkable woman from Idaho in remission from aggressive melanoma. She'd survived brutal treatment over the past few years and lost sight in one eye, but that didn't stop her from climbing the blocks, throwing herself at turns on those treacherous slippery walls, racing to strong times.
The indefatigable human spirit blazed everywhere—ninety-seven-year-olds competing and setting records to the astonishment and delight of 2,000+ athletes and spectators. My personal highlight came in the women's 55+ medley relay, swimming fly and hitting 28.3—surpassing my fourteen-year-old mark by one-tenth of a second. It's not a legal time because I jumped in after anticipating the breaststroker's touch rather than starting from the gun, but I accept the gift from my former self. Next time, I'll do it in the actual race.
What the water teaches: that community matters more than individual times, that courage looks like a woman racing half-blind on unfamiliar walls, that ninety-seven-year-olds can still set records, that two friends can literally lift you into a suit you couldn't manage alone. The relationships forged poolside—the hand grasped at the finish, the warning about slippery walls, the recognition across decades—these prove more rewarding than any clock ever could.
With inspiration drawn from the Masters swimming community and my family, what else is there but to start planning for Irvine next year? The water will be there, waiting. So will the community. And so, I hope, will I—perhaps a tenth of a second faster, certainly grateful for every moment spent in the company of people who understand why we keep diving in.
