455 Ridgway

To someone who sees it at first glance, the grey- blue building next to the soccer field at Santa Rosa High School is merely a place where the city of Santa Rosa goes to cool off in the summertime. To a passerby it is a building with little kids running around with styrofoam noodles and flip-flops with their faces tinged white with sunscreen. They see white water splashes and tote bags and umbrellas and beach towels and people in sun hats tanning on the grass. People see the signs of Summer, the signs of freedom, and the signs of childhood, because that’s what people think when they see a swimming pool. But to the mind of an elite swimmer, the pool located at 455 Ridgway Avenue means so much more.

The red interval clock ticks. Second after second we stare at the tiled black line on the bottom as we continue our sets that our coach barks at us. 30:55,56,57,58,59. The first heat of

swimmers starts the next round of 75’s as the clock blinks 31:00. Sounds of coughing and heavy breathing fill the air and the deck littered with mesh bags and half-full Gatorade bottles gets splashed over and over again like the repetition of a puppy getting a scolding. The blue tiled gutters seem to be a safe haven for the swimmers coming in pining for rest. As the pain goes through our minds, we don’t have the time to stop and think about what this will do for our future. We don’t have the patience to stop and think about where this set will get us, and we don’t think about how this one set may make or break our next meet. All we’re focused on is how to get through it the most efficient way possible.

Morning comes again. It’s six o‘ clock and the scratchy blue tarps have just been pulled off the pool by the college aged life guard who is still half asleep. Steam fills the air, making the water encaged in its rectangular prison seem warmer than it really is. It is a liar, a cheater, a trap. Slowly, the girls locker room opens and six brave girls tiptoe out into the bone chilling air and leap into the water. I am one of those girls. Cringing, whimpering, wishing- these actions explain our thoughts. Six a.m is a time to be asleep, cradled in warm and comforting bed sheets, not finding my way into a pool that does not have my best interest in mind at the moment. However, after two hundred yards of spinning my arms to get warm, I relax. I let the water rush past my body; It slides past my ears, down my torso and through my toes. It is a never-ending cycle as I think about my body position in relationship to my biggest friend, which also happens to be my biggest foe. As I direct my hips and shoulders in unison, I once again see the detail that is forever etched in a swimmer’s brain: the tiled black line on the bottom of the pool that ends in a T. Oh, that black line. The line that has haunted me for the last eight years of my life, the line that literally taught me to swim straight. The T comes again and I tuck, pressing my chest and throwing my feet towards the wall. My toes grip the concrete and push as hard as I can, on my back this time. Like a dolphin, my hips rise and my feet follow; My kick propels me past my waves that carried me into the wall, and I catch a glimpse of the Backstroke flags that gleam red, white, and blue, and I let the water take me into a blissful oblivion.

As Autumn turns to Winter, less people are walking on deck. There are the occasional parents in the stands watching their son or daughter try to avoid a red and black parka-d coach’s criticism. Sometimes I feel bad for these parents sitting in the sparse stands watching two groups of eighteen adolescents swimming back and forth. It must be excruciatingly boring to see red faced teens stop, look at the clock, take a sip of Gatorade, look at the clock again, and push off the wall in haste. Believe me, it gets boring being the one watched sometimes. However, as I watch the wisps of air escaping my coaches mouth, I realize why I’m here. For eight years I’ve endured countless sunburns, weeks of soreness, and too many practices in the rain to count on two hands. But after the pain, nothing makes it all go away better than seeing a best time on the clock. I smile to myself as my coach says, “Let’s see something amazing everyone. How do you want to be remembered?” I explode off the wall. The familiar feeling of water molecules rushing past my limbs overcomes me and my hands pull my body away from the pain stroke by stroke. My hips follow, and every third stroke I tilt my head ever so carefully to gasp a breath of sacred air. Before I know it, I’m back at the wall and I look up at the lurking red clock as my coach shouts, “27! You’re back Whaley, it’s nice to see.” I smile, my chest rising up and down and take off my goggles. I glance over at the once sparse stands to see the eager parents waiting in the cold for their children to hurry up and hop out of the pool. They’re looking at me. Over the heads of gossiping mothers I see my mom, patiently waiting. She happens to have the biggest smile on her

face and her hands escape from her pockets and a thumbs- up appears. Then, as if it never happened, she winks, then disappears down the stairs and out of sight.

For a swimmer, it is impossible to go to a friend’s pool party and not want to swim laps. It’s hard to see a pool and not dwell on how many times you’ve missed your National cut. But it is also impossible to see a pool and not remember how the hardest set you could imagine turned into the best life lesson you have ever received. The day I felt my heart beat through my face was the day I learned that the reason I spend more time in the water than at school was because I want to be great. Having my feet stick to the deck on a frosty Saturday morning is the path I take to greatness. For a swimmer, the polygon that contains our clear, chlorinated companion is the best thing to ever happen to us. I speak for any temporary resident of 455 Ridgway Avenue when I say it’s more than just an address.

--Reid