Every Last Word

by Tamara Ireland Stone

pool, and when he blows his whistle, my body’s response is purely Pavlovian. Palm over hand, my elbows lock as I press my arms into my ears and throw myself forward, stretching and reaching and holding the position until my fingertips slice through the surface. And then, for ten blissful seconds, there’s no noise at all except the sound of water whooshing past my ears. I kick hard and lock in my song. The first one that pops into my head is a happy tune with catchy lyrics, so I start my butterfly stroke, throwing both arms over my head in perfect synchronization with the beat. Kick, kick, throw. Kick, kick, throw. One, two, three. Before I know it I’m touching the opposite end of the pool, doing a tight turn, and pushing hard off the wall. I don’t look up or left or right. As coach says, right now, at this moment in the race, no one matters but you. My head leaves the water every few seconds, and when it does, I can hear the coaches screaming at us to get our chins down or our hips up, to straighten our legs or arch our backs. I don’t hear my name, but I check myself anyway. Today, everything feels right. I feel right. And fast. I increase the tempo of the song and kick it into gear for the last few strokes, and when my fingertips connect with the edge of the pool, I pop up and steal a glance at the clock. I shaved four-tenths of a second off my best time.

its like a rhythm. its natural.