My mother and Grandpa Rube stood talking at the water’s edge on the Sea Gate beach. I played at their feet, and gradually slid onto my belly. Lost in conversation, they didn’t notice I had submerged. I was two years old, and unafraid in that vast, salty element, the ocean a part of my soul.
Immersed in seawater or bathwater, I lived a mermaid fantasy. I out-swam sharks, avoided fishing nets, and found sanctuary among the rocks, escaping the sea captain who would sell me to a circus.
Awed by the privacy, silence, and weightlessness, I danced with the tides and rode the waves.
On hot summer nights, diving through colonies of phosphorescent jellyfish was other-worldly. And returning home, I slept on our front porch, my security blanket the soft, sea-soaked air.
In autumn, the beaches were deserted; and on weekends, my brother and I shuffled through the surf zone, discovering how warm the water remained, even into November.
We watched the winter snow melt instantly as it fell onto the icy grayness of the water, and we made sculptures of snow and sand.
In early spring, in spite of mother’s reprimand and the sore throat that would follow, I simply could wait no longer; and jumped off the jetty into the sea.
In all seasons, the beach and ocean were part of me; and for all my life, if I were near water, anywhere….I needed to be in it.
During the summer of 1949, I enrolled in a New York City swim program at Abraham Lincoln High School.
Carrying a banana and peanut butter sandwich in a brown paper bag, I set off on the twenty minute bus trip from Sea Gate to Brighton Beach.
A pair of steel doors led to the school’s athletic complex. Opaque, chicken-wired windows allowed little sunlight to enter, and fluorescent bulbs stabbed cold shadows between the rows of lockers.
A skinny nine year old, I felt unwelcome and out-of-place in this big kid’s school.
My life’s journey had brought me to this strange new space, but it was all about water, and that was not out-of-place for me.
Issued a locker key and towel, I was told to take a shower, put on a grey wool bathing suit, and join the others.
At the end of the locker room, a short flight of stairs and a disinfectant footbath led to a door clearly marked, “Pool”. Following the smell of chlorine and the sound of whistle toots, I entered the enormous, white tiled room.
As if smoothed and scooped by a mighty hand, the floor of the magnificent pool stretched and dropped to a diving well. The opaque windows covered the wall at the shallow end, my gray suit dulled by the filtered light. On the pool’s long axis, facing me, the empty bleachers waited for a crowd. Rooted in the floor at the deep end, were three diving boards. The scene was serious, professional…no babies here. The undisturbed surface left me breathless, and I yearned to dive in.
Strong and confident, the head coach introduced herself as Lil. No title, simply, Lil. With this gesture, she gifted me with equality; I was empowered, receptive, motivated.
During those weeks, Lil taught me the Australian crawl, breast stroke, back stroke, coordinated breathing, and praised my “secret weapon”. The mermaid kick I used since I was little, had developed and toned my legs; the other girls couldn’t keep up.
I don’t remember a friend or a teammate; only Lil’s instruction, and my own swimming.
All at once, the day came for the season’s final races, the medal events.
My Mother watched, nervously, from the crowded bleachers. The giggles of sixty anxious little girls bounced against the hard surfaces, raining down insecurity, apprehension, nervous energy.
We sat on the tile floor and waited, there were no warm-up exercises. Judges were positioned along the perimeter of the pool, and standing atop the center diving board at the finish line, was Lil.
“75 pounds and under”
“Swimmers, to your marks”…I stood to the left of the diving board, encouraged by Lil’s presence.
“Swimmers, at the ready”
Toes gripped the pool’s edge, knees slightly bent, torso at a forward tilt, arms stretched behind my hips, my swim-capped head above my feet, eyes on the water.
My eyes left the pool and found my Mother’s face…look at me, Ma…are you watching me, Ma? I’m the greatest, Ma………
BANG!!!
Startled by the splashing, my eyes left my Mother and returned to where I stood, alone. In the pool, the others were surfacing from their entry dives.
Why had I lost my concentration? Why had I needed to connect with my “Mommy“? Humiliation paralyzed me, but only for an instant. I dove into the water and faced the kicking feet.
Weeks of training would not be denied. I could do this, I was born for this. I found my mermaid kick and started to swim; I was no baby, not here.
Focusing on the feet in front of me, the gap began to close.
Reaching the shallow end of the pool, the turn, I took one giant breath; there would be no other. Now the finish line was in sight, the sharks falling behind.
Deep inside, my resolve strengthened, adrenalin delivered a final push to my legs. Swallowing hard, I touched the edge of the pool and looked up at Lil.
I had taken the bronze.
Epilogue: The following week, Lil visited my parents. She wanted me to enter a training program preparing qualifiers for the 1952 Olympics in Helsinki, Finland. She would be my sponsor and coach, my concentration, breast-stroke. I would have to attend school in Manhattan, and train at least four hours a day. My parents declined the offer, they wanted me to live a “normal” life.
Somewhere during my childhood, I lost the medal.
Posted Nov 4th, 2007 12:18am