My father turned 85 this past week. These last few months have been excruciatingly difficult for him as he has been fighting a serious infection in his spine that has diminished his mobility and strength. My Dad has been an athlete his whole life. Sports and rigorous movement have defined him – and so he has been particularly down and discouraged as he faces this physical challenge.
As I did for my mother several months ago, I wanted to share a story of my father who has taught and inspired me to work hard and push myself to be the best I can be. I wanted to remind him of his incredible strength and the immense sense of security and optimism he has provided for me my entire life.
We all have been facing discouraging situations for almost a year now. I hope that this story can elicit memories of past victories you have achieved and that we can all be reminded that the strength and courage we experience from those moments can and does endure to carry us forward in harder times.
The Race
Our opportunity to win had come down to this last August day. We were rarely home for this summer finale celebration – the Family Swim Meet - a collection of individual and relay swim races and diving contests that brought young and old together for a spirited day of competition.
Back then we spent our summer days at the pool, meandering our way across the 9th fairway from the tennis courts after our morning lessons, and up to the clubhouse locker room where we would toss our rackets, quickly don our swimsuits and rush out onto the pool deck, hoping to jump in quickly before the lifeguard could see that we hadn’t taken the pre-requisite “shower before you swim.”
We swam all day, playing Marco Polo in one of the corners with wet locker room towels draped on each side to mark our boundaries, or “Jump or Dive” off the diving board, or searching for black rubber rings that we would hide along the black line that divided the shallow end from the deep-end. Sometimes we would bike home quickly to eat a sandwich – we didn’t have carte blanche to buy snack bar coupon books that allowed other lucky members’ kids to order greasy cheeseburgers and french fries or thick, creamy milkshakes – but we would hurry back to the pool to linger and gossip and snap towels at each other’s ankles that left a stinging burn.
The best summer days were when our father got home from work in time to come for an evening swim before the pool and locker rooms were closed for the night. Dad would emerge from the Men’s Locker Room onto the pool deck wearing his habitual swim attire – a solid red polo shirt and his red, blue, green and white striped swim trunks. We would hop and giggle around him beaming with excitement - our sun tanned faces and red eyes that stung from the hours already spent in the chlorine water gazing upon him with pride.
Dad would remove the pool towel draped around his neck and toss it over to a chaise lounge chair. He would then pull the red shirt off over his head – revealing his strong barrel chest and torso – and then toss it aside as well. We would watch with admiration as he mounted the steps up the diving board ladder, grasp the chrome railings on either side and bring himself atop of the long spring board. No one cared much about liability or risk back then and those old diving boards were equipped with a spring adjustment wheel to increase or decrease the amount of bounce. Dad would roll the wheel with his foot to increase the flexibility of the board, walk to the end and begin to flex and bounce – slowly at first and then rhythmically as his bounce and his height grew bit by bit. Moments later, our strong father was soaring above the board with each jump. We girls stood by watching, mesmerized by his agility and power. Just when we were sure that he couldn’t reach any higher into the sky, Dad would push off the board, float in mid-air for a brief moment and then enter the shimmering blue water of the pool. The manner in which he entered varied – sometimes it was a simple, stoic, straight jump. Sometimes he tucked into a perfect somersault and then stretched himself back out lengthwise. Sometimes he chose a pike dive. But I think the favorite for all of us was when he grabbed one knee to his chest, leaned back slightly to increase the water displacement and struck the pool in cannonball fashion. The plume and explosion of water was bigger than any other father could produce.
But no matter the dive, as soon as he entered the water, the demands of his boss at the bank and all of his work stress would melt away and we three sisters would eagerly jump in after him – draping our tired arms around his neck as we begged to be thrown, or for him to give us a dolphin ride or hoist us up standing on his shoulders so that we could dive off of him. To have the attention of our Dad in the swimming pool at the end of a hot summer day was a rare and cherished occasion.
The Family Relay trophy glinted and sparkled atop the awards table on that particular late August day of 1980. The prize stood taller and grander than any of the others on display and I admired its gold sheen and metallic blue accents. There were other trophies and ribbons of various colors and sizes for the multitude of events – but the Family Relay Trophy was the coveted prize for what would be the final race of the summer season.
The Swim Director announced the rules – the race would be an all Freestyle format totaling three lengths of the pool. Each family could have three swimmers, one parent and two children. The parent could be any age, but the combined age of the children had to be 21 or under. We knew it was our best and final chance at winning this annual competition. I was nine and Blair was 12 – our age exactly equaled 21 and we had Dad as our anchor – our moment had come.
The day went by joyfully with races and relays and penny dives. We indulged in the cheeseburgers and french fries that we so rarely got to order from the snack bar. There were candy contests and energetic announcements from the swim director and race judges. For a nine year old, it was a family day that you wished would never end. As the final race came into focus, the butterflies in my stomach increased and I would skip to the end of the pool to where the towering trophy stood to remind myself of our goal. Never in my life had I won a trophy so large and gleaming, and I envisioned it sitting upon by bedside table later that night.
The family relay groups were gathering. Different fathers and the occasional mom who had been nominated to represent her family all eyed each other and lobbed out harmless jabs and joking banter as everyone began to line up.
The Foster Family strategy was simple – youngest to oldest so that our strength would build with each lap. I was the weak link – but as I took my spot along the shallow end of the pool and looked left and right at my competition, I knew I wasn’t the worst swimmer.
I stepped up and curled my toes over the edge, crouched into my race dive stance and waited until the crack of the gun sent my body and all of the adrenaline rushing through it into a burst of pure energy. I hit the water and my arms and legs began their frantic movement. My legs kicked and pumped with all their might and my arms rotated through the water as fast as I could pull them. As quickly as it had started, my lap was over and I lifted my head just in time to see Blair’s long, lean body soar over me and into the deep end of the pool. I watched in awe as my older sister plowed through the water – her long arms and delicate fingers reaching so far with each stroke. I could see that she was pulling ahead of the other swimmers in this leg and as I gazed upon my Dad at the far end of the pool, his strong, powerful body crouched and ready to launch as soon as Blair’s fingers touched the end, I knew this race was ours to win.
I pulled my soaking wet and exhausted body from the pool and ran down its entire length to cheer Blair in her final strokes. The din around the pool deck from the dozens of family members cheering each other on had risen to a loud roar.
I got to the end just as Blair touched the wall – and that is when our hero, our father, became the singular magic in that swimming pool. His tall, statuesque figure flew out over the water in a racing dive that appeared to cover almost the entire shallow end. Blair had quickly jumped out onto the deck and she and I were now running the other direction, cheering and screaming alongside our beloved father as he brought our family victory to the finish line. His muscular arms pulled through the water like it was silk, while his kicking legs thundered behind him like the motor of a giant submarine. His head turned to the side only once or twice and revealed his gaping mouth like a gargantuan fish filling his gills with air. The other swimmers in the race melted away – nothing else mattered but my powerful, exceptional father who was leaving every other parent far behind. With several final and forceful strokes, his large hand touched the wall and his head burst up out of the water looking left and looking right and realizing he was all alone at the finish line. Several seconds passed before the other parent swimmers reached the end. The cheers from all of the families burst forth and Blair, Mom, Jenn and I whooped and hollered at our family glory. We had done it. Our Dad had done it! We were bringing home the trophy!
To this day, that gleaming trophy still stands tall on a shelf in my parents’ home, and though it is not as grand and impressive as I have conjured it to be in my memory all these years since, my Dad and his incredible and inspiring strength still are. He will forever be my hero and our family anchor. This man, who has brought home so many victories and created family moments that bring us all so much pride and joy, lives larger than life in my mind and heart.
Dad, I love you so deeply! I adore and salute you as a man and as my father. Happy 85th Birthday! Carry On!
Guard The Sacred. Seek Beauty. Celebrate The Moment. Celebrate The Possibility. Celebrate The Individual.
- EWE BEE U
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