I swam 25 metres yesterday.
And I’m pretty freakin’ proud of myself.
At least once a week for the past month or so, I’ve tried it. Once my lengths were done, I would stand in the shallow end and take 8 deep breaths. I made myself take 8 because I learned after the first few tries that I would just keep taking deep breaths in order to avoid actually attempting the swim. Now I take 8 and do a little countdown in my head.
Actually, it’s a countup from 1 to 8 but still. Once I hit 8, I have to go. No excuses.
Last week, I made it about 5 feet from the wall. Instead of being disappointed, I got excited. Because I knew that meant I would make it all the way the next time I tried.
So on Monday morning, I took 8 deep breaths, dropped down below the surface and started. I did my patented swim across the pool under water move which is kinda like the breast stroke with the odd strong flutter kick thrown in for extra propulsion.
At the halfway mark, the bottom of the pool drops off. Instead of following it down, I try to just keep swimming at the same depth. I followed it down the first time I tried this and learned the hard way that that just makes the surface harder to get to.
Speaking of surface, after another stroke or two I started surfacing – I just couldn’t help it.
I had to breathe.
The top of my head broke the surface but I my face was still submerged. Lungs aching, I could see the wall just ahead so I desperately gave one last pull and…touched!
I burst out and couldn’t even stop myself from taking a huge, loud, satisfying lungful of air.
I did it!
Not exactly a life-changing moment but it’s pretty cool to look back across the pool and think “yeah, I swam that”
I came home and announced my accomplishment.
Doug inspected my neck for gills, gave me a high five and a “good job baby” and handed me my breakfast.
Let the week begin.