Number 5

Posted on | December 15, 2011 | 1 Comment

as written June 3 & 4, 2000

One of the most integral experiences of my life, even to this day. I was 21 years old, still struggling to deal with the aftermath of The Room. Still struggling to become my own person. Still struggling to create a separate woman from the fears of my mother – who I took upon myself to mirror. This included physical weakness; my lungs. My allergies. My feet (born without specific tendons and ligaments in my medial arches). I had been a swimmer, sure – but I absolutely doubted the capability and power of my own body. The weakness I felt internally had seeped into the way I viewed my physical vessel. It allowed me to play the role of victim; as well as gave me an excuse to hide behind when I couldn’t face something or someone. Being sick and weak was always acceptable, and was always the only excuse you needed.

After this, I would never be able to do so with such abandon ever again. It was the first time in my life I felt liberated from the assumptions and beliefs I had hidden behind. It is a story that makes me the happiest. And it still feels good to transfer it out of my handwritten journal to this one. I am still proud of myself for this. I hope I always will be. I’ve never looked at myself quite the same again. You never know what you can do, until you do it.

So my boss, fellow coach and lifeguard Kyle had been on me all year about trying out for being an ocean guard at Horseneck Beach. Sure, it was a great idea, and I loved the idea of bringing my guarding experience up a notch (as Emeril would say). But as May drew nearer I began to doubt just how capable I was. Kyle is a big boy, muscular and tough, with 3 years of ocean experience behind him. But he wanted me to do it, and he signed both of us up for part I (of III) of “The Test.”

Nervous and timid, I found my way to Umass Dartmouth and into the classroom where everyone seemed to know everyone except me. The written tests for CPR, first aid and lifeguarding come out, and I try not to read into them too deeply. Then down to the pool and diving well. I make friends with a bunch of them as we are put into heats for the 500 yard swim (to be completed under 10 minutes). My heat is called and I am the only girl. The guys are big and buff, and ask me if I think I can finish. I don’t tell them that I’m a swimmer.

The water is really cold and squeezes my lungs so that it’s hard to breathe. Only freestyle and breast stroke are allowed, and I try to fly through the water. All the men I leave far behind, even lapping a few. I’m the first to finish (a 7-minute something finish. Not great but I’ll live with it).

Next comes Part II – the diving: 17 feet to retrieve the heavy dummy (I did that enough at Brigham pool for Ellis certifications - different than Red Cross) and submerged rescues. 25 yard swims to rescue active and passive victims – I made sure I was always the first person there, and back. The struggling drowner was thrashing against me, at least two times my size, but I was fueled on adrenalin and could feel the powerful kick of my legs as I hauled him back to safety.

“Be aggressive!” says Kyle. Finally, we’re done…da dum da dummmmm! Until the next day with the SURF TEST.

Driving up 88 with him, we’re both very nervous (though he has no reason to be). We get there and once again everyone knows Kyle, and I introduce myself around. There’s a lot of people and only 5 or 6 girls. Testosterone permeates the air. The Head Guard (who just happens to be the reigning Iron Man; wrestles crocs and wears their teeth around his neck – suitably) says he’ll take us on a ‘light‘ workout before the actual Surf Test. Great. I hadn’t brought any socks.

We start off – two mile run in the soft sand. Let me repeat. SOFT. SAND. Needless to say, long distance running is not my forte. That’s an understatement. With three quarters of a mile behind us, I’m at least a half mile behind the rest of the entire pack of a hundred plus guards. By myself. Alone. I’m humiliated and embarrassed and want to give up. But I don’t. And I finish.

Ahead of me I watched the big group run down to the waters edge without a break and go down for pushups: 20 pushups, no butts up in the air, no girlie ones on your knees. And if one person screwed up we started all over again. Up from the ground we sprang, sprinted to the nearest guard chair and got in lines for 50 yard sprints…again, and again, and again. I can’t breathe, but neither can anyone else. The last person to cross the line for the sprints each time is kicked out. Somehow, I’m never the last one. Down for more pushups, over for sit-ups, sprints, pushups, sit-ups, sprints, diamond pushups, isolation sit-ups, sprints – people puking and dropping like flies. It was boot camp for two straight hours, screaming numbers and “Yes SIR!” salutes.

I came SO close to losing what little was still in my stomach. But somehow, I pushed on, and kept up with everyone there. Finally, the Head Guard shouted that we were done. In one motion, we all collapsed. Dirty. Bloody. Vomitty. Sweaty. Sandy. I looked down at my legs, and they were encrusted in blood, as were my sneakers. Sand had gotten in-between my heel and shoe and had rubbed it into a bloody mush. I couldn’t stop, though.

As we lay gasping sprawled out on the sand like fish out of water, they told us not to eat anything, and drink only small sips (because if we drank more it came right back up) – and immediately started putting us in heats for the actual Surf Test. It seemed I hadn’t even caught my breath before my turn came. I stood, put on my swim cap, kicked off the bloody sneakers, shorts, and walked my black and green Speedo suited-body over with the 9 other competitors in my heat. I looked down the line – all dudes.

I’m aching, bloody, and tired. But this is the most important part of the test. They wear you down and then see if you can still deliver. Oh, I delivered. YEAHHH! On the go, we grabbed our Baywatch rescue tubes and sprinted 100 yards; past the bright orange cone then down to the beach and over the rocks to the water’s edge. Without hesitation we plunged into the 60 degree arctic still-winter waters. The air was sucked from my lungs like someone had karate-chopped me in the chest and knocked the wind out of me, and the guys blew past. I had to keep going…so, I did.

Swimming 100 yards straight out, hit the buoy then 100 yards over, another buoy then 100 yards back to the beach. With my rescue tube trailing behind me, I passed every single man save one. The rescue boat screamed at me, “Are you gonna let a bunch of dudes beat YOU!? Come on girl, KILL IT!” And then alternately as I passed them one by one, “Are you pansies gonna let a GIRL BEAT YOU!?!?!? SWIM, PUSSIES!!!” I would have laughed if I wasn’t expending every morsel of strength and focus into breathing through the debilitating cold and trying to put as much distance between myself and the rest of my heat.

As I tried to clamber out of the water, my numbed body refused to cooperate. I felt I was in slow motion. Somehow, I kicked it into high gear and sprinted the last 100 yards and fell to the sand, heaving – 3rd in my heat to finish.

We lay there, a moaning mass of expired bodies – slowly growing quiet with anticipation and nervousness as the scores were tallied, tested, debated, added up and decisions made. There were over 300 of us who started yesterday morning at the testing center. And it wasn’t until they stood before us that they told us they only had 8 openings. Total.

I was number 5.

And also the only woman chosen. My competitors were football coaches, nationally ranked track stars, men who wrestle sharks and gators with their bare hands. And then there’s little old me. INTIMIDATION MEANS NOTHING TO ME!!!

Whoever said a woman couldn’t conquer the world? Now I know I can. Kyle and I walked the beach afterward, (he being number 3), jubilant in our victory. I didn’t even feel the pain of the salt water cleaning out my mashed up bloody heels. I was euphoric…filled with the actual realization of my own power. My own ability. My own strength. In absolute wonder of the human body. I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face for days; and I’m happy to say that it’s never been wiped off my soul.

Keep reading…

Category: Stories From My Past

Comments

One Response to “Number 5”

  1. Jill Tracy
    December 18th, 2011 @ 3:48 pm

    Inspiring as always. I love this story :) And I love the strong woman who lived it.

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