Championmakers

CHAPTER 2:

 

Adrenalin powered my climb up and over a 15-foot wave. And a salty mist covered my face as the huge swell passed. For a moment my heart slowed and emotions calmed knowing that I had made it over the top of the wave and “outside” of this first set of big waves. These waves had a lot of energy and were at least twice the size and twice as steep as I had ever been in. As I looked out further, the next set of waves were bigger and rolling in fast. Panicked and paddling hard, in what seemed like just a couple seconds later, I was halfway up a 20-foot face realizing I wasn’t going to make it over. Hopelessly, with my arms wildly pulling water through my cupped hands, my mind began to freeze in true fear. The top lip pushed my body backwards. While tumbling down the steep water face my head somehow slammed into my board denting it, leaving me blacked out in the water. The next thing I knew a life guard was pulling me to shore while I was gurgling in water and air. We finally made it to the cool sand, and after hurling a couple times my breath began to ease. My first venture into big waves would be my last, and I was grateful the experience was over.

Having surfed smaller waves over the previous 10 years my paddling and swimming skills had improved and my stamina had built up. However, kicking it up to the bigger waves was an awakening. I now thought of swimming as merely an ability to stay alive while in the water. I just wasn’t a strong swimmer. Wrestling season ended just after the surfing disaster, so in the off season of my high school junior year, to improve my swimming skills going out for the swim team made sense. I’d never give up surfing. On the JV swim team discipline and consistency lead to some improvement. Morning after morning I was there to swim.

The current varsity team had been swimming competitively for years. These swimmers were tall, lean, and in shape. There was no way to realistically pretend I could compete with them. After all swimming was a means to stay alive in the water and therein was my goal as a JV swimmer. That was just fine. The funny thing about it was that my JV compatriots and I practiced swam with a varsity school of human-like fish and we were accepted as an upcoming part of the team.

Nearly two months had gone by and as circumstances would have it there was problem at a varsity meet. Apparently they were in a 3-day tournament, potentially leading to a state-wide competition the following month. Somehow they came up one swimmer short on the third day. Two of the top swimmers, Fuji and Tim, were in the running to attend a national training camp and winning the tournament played a big role in who would go. I didn’t know the details, but the varsity team needed as many points as they could muster to win the tournament and it was a close race. The winning team would emerge on day three, and missing a swimmer was not an option.

The last race on the third day was four laps, 100 yards total. Apparently I was the only choice. The team was desperate. We needed to do well, yet I wasn’t even close to their usual winning swim speeds. Filled with desire, after being asked to swim the varsity 100 and with no one else game, I accepted the challenge.

When it came time to race I had to be in the top three in order to gain enough points to clinch the tournament win. There were 15 other varsity swimmers in the race. I remember being certain that my competitors were all fishlike humans and winning wasn’t happening, but there I was at the starting line. At the gun, I found myself flying in the air towards the water. In mid-air, looking sideways I could see my team was watching with hopeful expressions. I hit the water and began to kick my legs and twirl my arms, feeling the water in my cupped hand again and again.

My main problem, the coach had told me, was that I took one breath every other stroke, “You’re spending too much energy turning your head and it’s slowing you down.” Taking that information into the race, about halfway down the first lap it seemed that I was in the middle of the pack. Slightly panicked, something had to change. I kicked harder but didn’t gain any ground. Then for the first time ever, in the middle of competition, my breath lengthened as I began to take in one breath for every four strokes. To my surprise a few strokes later my arm pits and torso seemed to lengthen, and my toes straightened out while continuing to search for more length and speed. A few fish seemed to be slowing down and still my breath was good.

About 10 feet before the end of the second lap, looking up while pushing off the wall with my arms, I could see my team jumping up and down in a thrilling show of support. I must have been making progress through the pack. For just a moment I saw Fuji’s face peering at me again with hope in his eyes. After the turn my mind went to pure “try.” Keeping up with my new strokes, my body stretched out even more! My cupped hands were now attached to well-timed whirlwinds and my legs were kicking strong even though they were beginning to burn. I could feel the water go past my legs and my ears for the first time ever. That had to be good. I was giving it my all.

Coming up to the wall at 75 yards, without thinking I made a flip, pushing off the wall with my feet, also a first. In my mind’s eye my body undulated like those Olympians I used to watch on TV as seen by an underwater camera. It might have been a dream but the experience of it was alive, right then and right there. As my head surfaced, water snorted out my nose and I could feel my shoulders and ribs lengthen too. The next breath brought in a good amount of air, but my throat remained partially filled with water. As air exited I had to make sure the water spewed out to ensure a clear path for that new breath of sweet air to come right on in.

On my way now to the finish line loud cheers and screams filled the air. As I looked to the right, there was a fish slightly behind me. Then to left, another fish was behind me. It was too much to absorb. Excitement built but at the same time my breath was beginning shorten. With a little more water in on the next breath I had no choice but to return to my usual one breath for every two strokes. The difficulty in getting enough air into my lungs grew as my original unrealistic hopes of winning began to lessen. My body was becoming less adaptable, legs burning, breath even shorter, and there was about ¼ of a lap left.

With about 15 feet to the final touch, in slow motion, I saw Fuji jumping up and down screaming, and the rest of the team cheering. My mind ignored bodily pain and signals telling me to stop and gasp for air. My body slowed again and I could feel it sinking. There was nothing else possible I knew to do. My arms flailing, I thanked God as the final kick pushed my fingers onto the wall. My hand immediately raised up high to show that I had touched the finish line. Spewing out the rest of the unwanted water, I began gulping in that sweet, sweet air.

The results? Well, I was second. My job was done. I didn’t win per se, yet everyone on the team shook my hand and Fuji had tears in his eyes. I found out later he would go to the Nationals training camp. I was truly pleased for him and quite happy about my efforts. Perhaps for the first time in my life I was accepting of the appreciation conveyed. The praise actually felt good. I had no expectations of winning before the race. I didn’t really win but I didn’t really care either. Neither did anyone else, since the team won. There was much more accomplishment in that race than I could have ever realized, and I was never happier with a sports result. There was the courage to swim in competition, the ongoing “try” involved in the pursuit to win, a varsity placement, and my new winning friends!

Many years later, while talking with a well-known show representative, we agreed that the best dog shows were those where everyone from parking lot attendant to the show chair contributed in an atmosphere of sportsmanship. The entire group at these great shows were also great teams. To the outsider, competition appears to be a bunch of dogs trotting around a ring. Blue ribbons and points are given to the winners by the judge, and there is a certain amount of socialization. After showing almost everyone packs up and goes on their way. One dog from each breed stays for the group, typically, and the rest go home. Yet the breeder has put his or her best efforts into producing the best representative of the breed, the judge brings knowledge and experience of the breed into the ring and plenty of “try” to determine which entry is the best representative, the handler “tries” to show off the entry to its best advantage, and the ring steward and all other involved in the show “try” to set the stage for all this to happen with each and every breed. “Try” in this context is the willingness to give it all, to do your best and to enjoy the effort whatever the outcome.

Winning in the sport of dogs has many meanings. One big difference between swimming and a dog show is that at a dog show, the dog is handled to the win. The dog that wins the blue ribbon, points toward the championship, or the title of best of breed. Winning these points and titles in and of themselves has little or no direct meaning to the dog. For the dog, the actual winner at the show, winning comes through the relationship with the handler and others involved. How the relationship plays out in the ring depends on what the...