Short Story: 200 Butterfly

It’s a quick two steps, and then you’re up onto a stark white block that prickles your toes and feels like sandpaper underfoot.

Square platforms numbered one to six, rise above the 50-meter pool. I wait behind five.

The whole pool deck rumbles from parents, siblings, friends, and other swimmers chatting, building up a hum under an engorged morning summer sun. We — the event — shake out our limbs, attempting to feel calm (or maybe, to get the blood going and lean into the adrenaline that’s bubbling).

The swimsuit straps dig into my shoulders. I slip two fingers underneath, stretching them out before running my fingers along the lower seams, easing the tension.

They’re going to leave deep red marks on my shoulders and butt and it feels like I’ve strapped my body into a rubber band, but it’s a good thing. The tighter the suit is the better I can glide.

“Being a swimmer is a study in contrasts”, I think.

You’re stripped down bare. Your muscles are lean and long, but you’re also squished into the tightest suit possible, bulging out, all so you can move water.

Stretch, glide, stretch, glide.

…

A latex cap hits my forehead and stretches across my head with a satisfying snap. Then I place my goggles securely: tiny and snug. The girls who worry about them falling off keep their goggles snapped under their cap, but I’m not. So they stay up on my forehead until it’s time to step onto the block.

Stretch, glide. My shoulders are still sore, I rotate forward and swing my arms wide to my sides and then down so they cross behind my back, slapping alternate sides.

“Ignore the sting where it’s digging into your groin and it’s pulling higher up your back”, I say in my head.

It’s a 200 fly. The most exhausting two + minutes of your life, this suit will help.

The water languidly laps at the pool’s edge, soon to transform into a furious torrent of gliding bodies and outstretched arms.

The crackle of the starter booms.

'Heat 2, step up.'

Focus. Don’t fall off the block.

Goosebumps tickle my skin as my toes touch the prickly platform. Stay loose, stay focused. Contrasts.

Silence.

My body knows one thing: launch into the water.

(Take your mark.)

Connect. Prepare. Let the adrenaline flow, arch your head up, arms taut, thighs flexed, back muscles reacting.

(BEEP).

The harsh sound flings our bodies into the air like rubber bands. Coaches yell, my teammates scream. Arms arrow straight, feet pointed, and in a fraction of a second, I’m slicing into the water. A small splash in my wake.

The race is on.

…

In a butterfly race, persuading your body to stay underwater demands a tight, spear-like form—hands outstretched and clasped above your head, your core driving your hips forward with power…fast and far. Timing this with speed and distance propels you as close as possible to the middle of the pool(or, if you’re Michael Phelps, almost to the other side) without a breath.

When your head and shoulders break the surface, it’s a full-body workout synchronized with deep, rapid breaths. Stroke after stroke.

The world rushes back, and sounds meld into a muffled symphony. Hup-hup-hup chants from the poolside signal my coach’s presence at the edge. Each time my hips rise, my head plunges back underwater, and muffled quiet returns. It’s just me, attuned to the water’s rhythm as I glide.

Stretch, glide, stretch, glide. Hup, hup, hup. Breathe, crash, breathe, crash.

I’m at the end of the pool lane.

Two hands grip the wall, flipping my feet as I spin. Like a corkscrew, I push off, returning to the silence.

Three more laps.

Stretch, glide, stretch, glide. Hup, hup, hup. Breathe, crash, breathe, crash.

By the third lap my lungs burn. 50-meter pools feel especially taxing, less flip turns. My hips feel strong yet heavy. Arms long and wide, propelling the water behind me. The girl next to me is a length away, her pace slowing.

My head crests the surface. Screams pierce the air from my right. Hup, hup, hup. Chlorine seeps into my skin.

“Can you tighten your core even more?” I’m urging myself not to drop my hips.

Stretch, glide, stretch, glide. Hup, hup, hup. Breathe, crash, breathe, crash. One lap left.

Through the corner of my eye, I glimpse lane two closing in, the others trailing behind, unseen.

Head down. Shoulders flexed. I’m exhausted.

Eyes on the black line below, adrenaline whispering in the back of my mind.

Water sloshes over me, flowing in and out of my mouth.

Hup. GO, GO, GO. DIVE. Last 25 meters.

With whatever strength remains, I will my arms to stay attached to my body and my legs zippered together.

Three powerful strokes and my fingertips slam into the pads. Sound and yelling swell above—slap, slap, slosh, thud, hup. GO.

Girls finish to my left and right. Neon numbers flash times I don’t care about.

Panting, my cheeks burn, and the moment every swimmer craves arrives.

Yanking off my cap and goggles, I take the most euphoric dunk back under the water. The heat flowing off of my body—a quick release and rush of cold now that the latex cap is off.

Popping up, lane four hangs on the lane line, ready to high-five.

It was close, but I did it. First place.

Now, to haul myself over the pool edge onto the deck. Chlorine oozes from my pores.

I miss the quiet under the water.

Chest heaving, I see my coach’s hand, ready to yank me up and out. The next heat lines up.

“Take your mark."

The end.