Creative Nonfiction by Andrea Badgley
Dear Swimming, As much as I complain about you — about the middle of the night wakeups, about the cost, about the 3-day swim meets where we spend 18 hours at the pool for 12 minutes of our daughter swimming — I love you dearly. I abandoned you for many years. I used a tread … Continue reading Love Letter to Swimming
I think a lot. My mind is always going. Words and thoughts run and run and run through my head. When I’m in the shower, ideas come to me. When I run, I turn problems over in my brain. Tuesday, when I went for a swim, I had a couple of problems I planned to … Continue reading Blissfully blank
Our ten-year-old daughter has been swimming on the H2Okies swim team for about 3 years now. She loves it not for the winning, or even the chance to win (she doesn’t win), but because she is at home in the water, because she has fun, and because she gets to hang out on deck with … Continue reading Exciting news from the pool deck
Pop tunes pump through the Christiansburg Aquatic Center — songs with catchy lyrics, strong beats, and lots of energy — our 10 year old daughter’s favorite kind of music. She has, against my will, made me love these songs. Justin Bieber? I get excited when his latest comes on the radio. Justin Bieber. Sigh. The … Continue reading On deck
We spent the weekend poolside at the aquatic center as our 9 year-old daughter competed in the district championship meet. I always get teary-eyed when I go to meets: athletes inspire me, especially young athletes, and most especially my own young athlete. When I get emotional I like to scribble notes about my surroundings, and … Continue reading Try not to push
My timing partner stood slowly, stopwatch in hand, and stared at the surface in Lane 1. Our swimmer, in Lane 4, crouched in her starting stance, ready to spring off the block, when I turned and saw the body floating in the water.
The teenage form hung limp in her dappled black speedsuit. Her back rounded into a hump that barely broke the surface, and her arms and legs dangled. Her eyes gazed at the bottom of the pool.
She looked relaxed, like she was resting in jellyfish pose while she waited for her heat to begin. I expected her to lift her head, shake the water off her cap, and say, “Okay, I’m ready,” with a big grin on her face.
Instead, her flaccid form floated there, as we all wondered, what the hell?
“She must have passed out,” I murmured, flashing back to times I’ve fainted: at the eye doctor, after blood draws, watching the nurse pull the drain from the gash in my husband’s leg; the slurping sound it made.
Timers, coaches, and neon yellow vests of meet officials crowded the corner of the pool deck adjacent to where the body floated. I recognized a meet marshal with full makeup and a helmet of highlighted hairsprayed hair. She was kind to me that morning when I told her, “I’ve never done anything like this before. I have no idea what I’m doing.” She had smiled a warm smile, cupped the side of my shoulder in her hand, and said, “It’s okay honey, we’ll have a timer’s meeting beforehand to train you. We’re just glad you’re here. Thank you for volunteering.”
Now, she was jumping into Lane 1, feet first, fully clothed. Her hair lifted as her body descended. The white rubber soles of her Converse low tops slapped the water and her arms were clamped by her sides. Another official, a young man with rectangle glasses and dark jeans, plunged in from the adjacent pool deck.
