My parents used to tell me stories of who I was as a young child and how I would act on a daily basis. Apparently I would sit in the backseat of the car and tell endless stories, some more interesting than others. Supposedly I would sit in the backyard, playing in mud, eventually coming inside only to track dirt throughout the entire house. But my favorite thing to hear about my childhood, by far, are about my days in swim lessons. My parents have said that I could never float, that I could never go more than two minutes without trying to swim to the bottom to sit on the floor and that I could never stop singing while I did the backstroke. My mom has told me on many occasions, when I was learning to float, I would take off for the deep end. On one occasion, after one of my swim lessons, I got out of the pool and took off across the pool deck. I jumped into the deep end, where the water was about four feet of water; my dad reached in with a single hand and yanked me out of the pool.

I began swim lessons as a two year old at the community center in Midland, Michigan. I can still remember the pool; in the shallow end there was a big red mushroom that had water spilling over the sides. Down the center of the pool was a short wall that had large yellow half-circles shooting water into the pool. I remember sticking my fingers into the sides of the yellow circles; when one hole was plugged, the one next to it would double in the amount of water it would spit out. I grew up in that community center; I remember how I loved the indoor water slide, big and blue and so much fun to slide down backwards. I also remember how just across the hallway outside was another pool where I had taken a scuba diving class as a nine year old. Those hallways are filled with memories and good times.

When I was seven years old, I officially joined the Midland Dolphins, a competitive swim team for kids of all ages. I remember that I started in "Dolphin Yellow," meaning that I had already skipped two levels. I practiced at the middle schools during the fall, winter, and spring seasons, but was lucky enough to practice at the outdoor pool during the summer. As a seven year old I was already placing in swim meets, bringing home medals, ribbons, and trophies. As a seven year old, I was meeting new people, learning new skills, and building a new life in the water.

As I progressed through the levels of the Midland Dolphin Swim Team, and as I aged, I learned how to fine-tune technique, work with others, and I learned how to make new friends. My best friends, all throughout childhood, had been swimmers on that team, and many of my friends today are still swimmers, thought not necessarily in Michigan. After I moved from the Midwest to the East Coast, I wasn't really sure of who I was or where I would end up. My parent's main concern, of course, was putting me in school and having me meet the family (every single cousin within a 100 mile radius). But my senses were drawn to finding a new team, I felt homeless without a pool to swim in; I felt naked without a cap and pair of goggles.

In seventh grade, just after I moved to New Jersey, I found a new swim team, the Elite Swim Club. I was welcomed with open arms and met, to this day, still some of my greatest friends, on that team. I swam as a member of the Elite Swim Club for five consecutive years until, just recently, my sophomore year in high school.

I looked back, as a sophomore, on my freshman year as a mistake, as the point of no return, and I realized that the sport I had so much loved and looked up to, had caused me so much pain and regret. I stopped wanting to go to practices, I stopped wanting to talk to my teammates and I stopped wanting to compete. After I injured my shoulder, tore a few tendons and damaged my rotator cuff, I just wasn't in the mood anymore. Everything hurt. The idea of swimming caused me to wince, and on a few occasions, to cry. I couldn't handle it anymore.

The interesting part of this story though, is that through all of the issues I faced at Elite, with the shoulder injury and with the lack of dedication, was that I joined the high school swim team. As a freshman on the team, I wasn't looking for fame and fortune, I was just looking for a place to swim and for a new group of people to love. Thankfully, just after I quit the Elite Swim Club, I received my varsity letter, the only thing that kept my head up and my spirits high, the only reason I continued to swim.

Today, as a captain of the varsity swim team, and a senior going into my final year, I reflect upon these last 10 years of swimming as the best years of my life. I have been reviewing the tales of my swimming career in the blog my mom kept of every meet I attended and of every time I ever made. I love to re-read the story of how I swam the 100 Butterfly while the fire alarm in the pool was ringing; neither myself nor any of the other swimmers in the pool heard the alarm go off, we continued to swim through the deafening noise and the roar of the crowd marching towards the exits.

I love to read my mom's accounts of the state meets I swam at and of the championship races I won. I love to read short entries in her blog, simple little things like: "The big question today -- to cheer or not to cheer. I love to cheer. I love to urge my swimmer on and give her support from the bleacher seats.

Three problems with cheering:
1. Lexy says she can't hear me with her head under water. Can this be true?
2. If I cheer when I'm videotaping, my video viewers can hear me. . .
3. When Lexy watches my videos, she says "Mom! Stop!"

I guess this is a "development opportunity" for me. But when my swimmer is swimming, my spidey senses start tingling and I've got to cheer! Go Lex go!"

My mom said to me, just this evening, as I was writing this piece and reflecting with her on my years of swimming, "There was no way you weren't going to be a swimmer." In hindsight, I guess she was right, once a swimmer, always a swimmer.