It’s Sunday morning at the swim meet. Early, but not nearly as early as we usually start. As I’m navigating the rain swept streets of Marietta, to the perimeter, to literally the other side of town, the kids and I were discussing the “lateness.” (It is 6:59am at this point.)
“We would already be in the water at our pool,” said Abby.
“I know!” Said John (one of my surrogate swimmer sons that I get to claim). “I thought I had overslept because the sun had already come up!”
But, thankfully we arrived safe and sound, the drum beat of the rain holding steady on the stretched vinyl of the tent that covers the outdoor, 50 meter pool in the middle of a run down neighborhood. The pool may be old, but the history is here. Michael Phelps himself holds records at this pool. Now I sit as the kids warm up and the sound of the rain is drowned out by the splash of the pool.
It’s a comforting sound. Low and rumbling and constant. The smell of chlorine that brings a slight sting to your eyes and nose is clean and sharp. There is another sound that bumbles through every now and then though. It’s the promised thunder and lightning from the all day weather event.
“The pool is grounded, right Coach Kit?”
“From what I’ve been told, yes.”
Never say the sport of swimming is boring.