Summer Swim Team

“Quick, Vinc is about to swim breaststroke,” one of my eight-and-unders yells to her friends as they race to the side of the pool. Snapping on my silicone swim cap, I glance up to see most of the team gathering around the pool. The rest of the coaches and my team start a name chant. “Vinc, Vinc, Vinc…”

The meet official says, “Swimmers take your marks.” I lower my hands. “Set.” I lean back, scrunching my scapulas. “Beep!” I spring forward. Graceful, like an aerial penguin, I float through the air and plunge into the water. As my underwater glide slows, I contract and load my powerful track legs. I release. I move an inch.

The whole team erupts with laughter as I grin with my incompetence for breaststroke.

I have been with the Brentwood Hurricanes swim team for a long time; frankly, it’s the longest I have done anything in my life. Twelve years of new cheers, meets, and most importantly coaches. When I was seven, coach Griffin boisterously cheered and made both teams laugh. When I was ten, coach Brendan patiently allowed me to press my ear against his back as I listened to his voice reverberate through his body. When I was thirteen, coach Claire gently and lovingly picked up a kid who had cut his knee, holding him in a way I thought only parents did. When I was fifteen, it was my turn.

What if I didn’t have what it took to be a coach? But, as I started my transition into coachhood, I felt an invisible reservoir open that was filled with the memories of my own coaches. Actively emulating my memories, I saw the same awe in my kids’ eyes that was once in mine. Brentwood isn’t about solely about swimming, as evidenced by my inability to do the breaststroke. I grew, laughed, and cried with this team as I became the person I am today. While I am washed with waves of nostalgia as even a thought of the Brentwood Hurricanes crosses my mind, this community, my family, is something that will always continue to affect who I will be. After all, it’s not everyday you can say you have 105 “kids.”