Splash.

Splash.

I glide through the water. Every inch of me is enveloped, and I become fluid. Utterly covered, I am weightless.

I have just spent a moment crying to mom, because my cap and goggles were pinching at my head, but tears dissipate amidst a pool of water. So, too, does the pinching sensation. Everything is bearable underwater.

I am no longer a girl: I’m something resembling a fish, and something resembling the sea itself. Every worried thought is silenced, as my brain too has liquified. The only thing I hear is the rhythmic splish, splash, as I continue to glide. I am a swimmer. I am a fish. I am the water itself.

I am a rock, tumbling chaotically in the storm.

The waves yank me too and fro, occasionally pushing me down only to throw me up once more a moment later. Each time I gasp for air, my mouth is filled with wet salt instead. It reaches down my throat, strangling me. Air has liquified, everything has liquified, except for me. Even the land, the beautiful land I once occupied, and the sun which had shone so happily, have been consumed. Everything is gone.

I am a piece of trash, left on the beach, picked up and carried away without a second thought. I am not meant to be here, but the Ocean does not notice nor does she care. She does not have time to judge what things should or should not be. In her greed, she simply consumes. No one is as covetous as she.

My head hurts, it is pinching again. I claw at the cap digging into my skull, but nothing is there. Was there ever a cap there? Where did it go? I am getting confused. My head is pounding. I sob. The salty tears are indistinguishable from the sea of tears I am drowning in. With every sob that emerges, water takes the chance to rush in.

“Go Myah! Swim! Swim!” Mom’s voice arises, “Faster Myah! You’ve got it. Swim! Swim!” Her voice blurs and gurgles with the rest, just as every voice does when water takes its hold, but I swear I can make out each word. She is undoubtedly cheering her heart out, offering encouragement.

I am trying my best.

I am trying my best, and I am effortlessly beating the other girls. I am the fastest one in the entire pool. I am the fastest one on the entire team, even though I am young. Coach says if I keep working on my form, I could go far with this swimming thing.

I am trying my best and I am going to win.

I am trying my best and I am going to drown.

“MOM!?” My voice is hoarse. It seems my vocal chords are being ripped to shreds, torn out by the salty water that continues to pour into my throat. I try to yell again, this time “help,” but only a pathetic squeal squeaks out, before being rudely interrupted by coughing and more and more water. Always, more water. Maybe I ought to be giving up. I am not water. I am just a girl.

No! Push push push! Just keep swimming! Tread the water! Stay alive! Keep going! A hundred corny catchphrases float through my head.

I am nearing the end now, and I’m eons in front of the other girls. Why don’t they try harder? It seems impossible that they could be so far behind, when this water is so smooth and I glide so effortlessly, but I don’t actually care that much where I am anyways. The feeling as the water gently pulls and tugs at me, while I gently pull and tug back, is so nice that I hardly care about anything. Even my deep breaths are beautiful, steady. Splish, splash, breathe. Splish, splash, breathe.

Rather than creeping in, fatigue crashes over me with full force. Is it better to go out fighting, or to die with a shred of dignity? I fear I am too exhausted to think deeply either way. I am worn. I am just a girl.

I have never controlled the water, and this realization offers a small amount of comfort to a weary body, even more to a weary soul.

Maybe there is beauty in submission. It is almost commendable, to accept such a whopping defeat. I deserve to lose. If I cannot swim, I had better accept my fate. To put up a fight is meaningless anyway.

The Ocean tells me about herself. She does not care how fast of a swimmer I am, or anyone is. She does not care if people have won medals, or have never swam a day in their life. She is relentless, and she does not discriminate. Her job is to continue on how she would like, and if that means getting people where they need to go in the meantime, or crushing any plans they’ve ever had, she will do so without remorse. I listen, and I understand. Graciously, I allow my body to go limp. It is less painful when I do not try to fight it.

My hand touches the wall, and I pop out of the water, gasping. I hardly remember the details of the race; everything is a beautiful, blurry dream. People are cheering and clapping, and I cannot keep the smile off my face. Mom’s voice is the loudest of the rest.

Looking back at the rest of the pool, there is a storm of girls trying to catch up. My euphoria soars. I am the best. I have commanded this pool. Finally, another head pops up, an odd fish with bulging reflective eyes and a bright orange bald head. Her heavy breathing echoes through the room, as if she is asthmatic. Her loud wheezing is unsettling; I am glad I am not her.

The Ocean seduces me further, telling me to close my eyes. I surrender. The crashing and throwing, it is almost therapeutic. I hardly notice my lack of control anymore. I hardly notice anything. A faint memory of my first swim meet rises in my head. My mom cheered so loudly. My mom…my mom…she…

“Yay Myah! Yay Myah!”

“Myah! Myah!” Her voice turns to panic. Am I losing? Why is she so upset?

“Myah! Myah!” Into focus comes my mom, looking down at me.

I get out of the water, and she aggressively pulls me into a hug, not caring that I might get her clothes wet. “I am so proud of you!”

“Oh my goodness!” She cries, and pulls me in for a hug, not caring that I’m getting her clothes wet.