Deep End

01 | Swim Fright

CHAPTER-01: Swim Fright

Rae: Yes, I'm unfortunately prone to panic attacks at any given moment when attending a swim meet. Sandra Calloway bars can't possibly save me now.

——<<>>——

~| 11:37am|~

RAE'S POV:
"Nervous?"
That just about did me in, the kind tone in which coach spoke and the overall warmth of his relaxing, therapeutic presence and demeanor, of which was something I usually find calming and reassuring, was rapidly becoming the very thing that I didn't need right now.

 Coach Johnathan Sage, age twenty-seven, had been a swimming sensation in his early adolescence—in earlier reports there was a good chance you could've found his name listen alongside infamous modern sensations, like Sandra Calloway and Silas Garcia, in new articles of public adornment and affirmation.

Unfortunately for him, After suffering a severe aquatic injury involving improper diving board technique and what could have been a fatal concussion, he was forced to wring his towel and toss aside his fins.

"At first, I was devastated—scared shitless if you want full disclosure.." He adds with a bit of a sly grin, his British accent makes it all the more comical as he continued,

"And then I was invited to coach and mentor one of the best teams in the United States at Stanford. It was a near insurmountable offer and, not to mention, a huge honor. I didn't know whether to take it or to leave it—"

"So what made you take it?" The blonde haired-brown eyed girl of about twenty two, Prissy Goldfield had asked.

 His face-splitting grin widened, "We'll call it serendipity."

——<<>>——

As contagious as Coach's innate affability is, the prospect of word's of encouragement seemed didn't do much in the ugly face of a state-wide meet with prestigious judges that hold the highest standards and the lowest expectations.

After Coach had given us a debrief of the rules, regulations and expectations we were given roughly an hour and a half to explore our residence, the nicest hotel in Raleigh, each room a luxurious spa-level suite with all appliances covered and with all expenses deliciously paid.

After we're all situated and less than comfortable and Coach is.. considerably satisfied with our jet-lagged, fatigued forms we drive over to the Aquatics Center.

We're met with a wave of humid, heated air laced with the familiar taste of chlorine and salt-water the moment we step into Raleigh's Aquatic Center.

Coach and some of the upper class-men register themselves and take turns guiding their younger counterparts through their own registration.

After, we all march up and down long flights of seemingly endless, dizzyingly spiraling stairs, nearly trample a few kids, and find ourselves begging an unassuming security guard to point us in the direction of the pool.

(Aka the largest, most candidly un-missable attraction in the building.)

Men and women divide into two separate lines and pour into either locker-room.

I'm quick to tug my pajamas and slippers off, and stuff them carelessly in my swim bag.

I unclasp the necklace my mother had given me when I was younger and smile at the memory before tucking it into my My Little Pony infiltrated bag.

Our team, the California Fighters pour out onto the large deck—the pool, like most, is your typical twenty-five meter that goes from four to eighteen feet from left to right, lined with flags on either end and on the deepest end, a pleasing row of perfectly placed and crafted steel diving boards that look like they cost significantly more than my yearly salary. The ceiling is lined with pipes, and air ducts— and vents, and on elevated platform seats—them.

The geologically—universally known gods of swimming.

Poseidon's Triad, some call them. Three of the most talented, strongest, most revolutionary swimmers in the history of the sport itself.

Sandra Calloway, Cedric Adler, and Silas Garcia.

I'm not sure how much I should depend on my conscious mind to ensure that the large, blonde-haired, dark-eyed man that I am staring at from across a twenty-five meter salt water/chlorine pool, is actually him—my hero.

The same man of which I'd spent hours studying his form and technique and swimming patterns on the face blue-lit screen as often as I could; I'd studied and restudied how he propelled himself off of diving boards in a territorial, powerful, sleek motion that suggested power, and a man that's so sure of what he's doing—and talent, So much talent.

Talent, and the assurance that I so crave.

At first It feels surreal, unlike anything ever— but it was rapidly becoming terrifying and causing every functioning sector of my brain to erupt into piercing, screeching alarms

"I can't."

I find myself telling my coach firmly, he was holding the swim cap I'd discarded to the ground in a passionate, resolute attempt to convince him to let me quit. I watched as his expression made an unconventional transition from inscrutable, to calm, to utterly alarmed.

"You can't." He says, "Quit, I mean."

I plop down on one of our teams benches and begin stuffing my equipment back into my bag.

"I can't compete, Coach." I reply, this time with a tone far more firm.