mile swim

People are often surprised with how much I can carry, how far I can throw a football, how fast I can climb a wall. Granted, I'm not as strong as most people are, but based on my observations, I'm probably stronger than I look. So when I think "I can't" and say it, people believe me and that's the end of it.

Not so much at Camp Tapico. I say “I can’t” and I hear “try.” I was talked into doing several things I didn’t think I could do. I went on the 4+6 mile bike ride (twice, actually). I attempted the eight hilly miles into Kal, didn’t make it but probably could have if it weren’t for the wind and the time crunch (I felt fine on the six hilly miles I biked back to camp). I yelled to Eco-Con and they heard me. I swam a mile.

Kalkaska mornings are cold and water--shower, swimming, rain--destroys my tolerance for cold. I wasn’t going to be able to jump in the lake at 6 o'clock Thursday morning with the rest of the mile swimmers. But I could swim laps in the afternoon.

I had to swim 44 lengths, so down-and-back 22 times. I had to keep track somehow, and numbers are boring and easily mixed up.

There are 20 mysteries of the Rosary if you count the luminous, and adding two afterward wouldn’t be a problem. If I did them in chronological order, I wouldn’t mix them up.

I slid into the waist-deep water off the one dock and began making my way to the three dock, focusing my mind on the Annunciation. I gave up trying to say Hail Marys because all I had to count on were my fingers, and I needed those to swim. I flipped over onto my back before I got to the three dock because I couldn’t breathe.

I touched the one dock again and thought of Mary visiting Elizabeth. When I came back to the one dock, I was about ready to get out of the water. I was exhausted. I couldn’t do this. But I didn’t want to say “I attempted 44 and quit after 4” when everyone was convinced I could make it the whole way. Plus I wanted to be able to say that I swam a mile. Pride countered my “I can’t.”

I kept going: one dock, three dock, one dock, three dock. I was almost entirely elementary backstroking, but every now and then I’d flip over breast stroke. I slammed my head into the dock twice.

The presentation in the temple. My left knee started hurting, so I had to be careful how I kicked. “I can’t do this. I need your strength,” I prayed. Bob and Jam Jam were on the main dock, and when I swam by they moosed me (which, according to the moose game, meant I had to do five pushups). “I’ll do ’em later!” I called. They laughed. I tried to swim by with goggles up (hands shaped like Os around my eyes, which would exempt me from the pushups) but I pushed my face underwater and sputtered to the surface, treading water until I emptied my nose. They moosed me a few more times, and I began thinking about how cool it would be to say I swam a mile, got out and did 20 pushups.

When campers want to do the mile swim, they have to swim a quarter mile Monday, half mile Tuesday, three-quarters Wednesday, then get up Thursday morning for the mile. It was Tuesday, and I was about at the halfway point. I could stop now, I thought, but that first half mile sucked, and if I stopped now, I’d have to swim it again. I may as well finish now. My own suffering countered my “I can’t.”

The institution of the Eucharist. I was nearing the three dock when a gullible camper, also swimming laps, asked me how deep the water was this far out. I told him I didn't know. "Bob told me it was 50 feet deep here," he said. I smiled, knowing twelve feet was more accurate. "Well, Bob's the aquatics director; I'd trust him," I told him.

The agony in the garden. My left arm cramped up and I let it drag, limp, flailing in a pathetic half-stroke. I channeled what was left of my strength into my legs, kicked hard, and tried to massage my arm. It felt like someone had surgically implanted a golf ball in my bicep. But I can’t swim very long without my arms, so I laid back again. Elementary backstroke is slow enough; my one-armed elementary backstroke was even slower.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in so much physical pain--my whole body ached and I could only use some of it. “I need your strength,” I prayed. I wanted to give up, get out of the water, lie in the sun. I hurt.

The scourging at the pillar. To bail out of this because I was suffering would be ridiculous.

"I need your strength." The crowning with thorns. "I need your strength." Carrying the Cross. “I need your strength.” The crucifixion. "I need your strength." His suffering countered my “I can’t.”

The resurrection. I hurt, I hurt bad, but I was on the homestretch now. “I need your strength to finish this. I don’t need to do pushups on the dock. I just want to finish the mile, and I can’t do it without you. I need your strength.” But wouldn’t it be cool to swim a mile and immediately do 20 pushups on the dock? I hurt.

The coronation of Mary. One. A thrill shot through my body: This "I can't" was nonsense, and I knew it.

Two.

I finished. I let out a yell of victory. I touched the one dock, stood up and threw my arms into the air triumphantly--or anyway, that was the plan. I touched the one dock, put my feet on the ground, tried to raise my body up, and splashed into the water. Bob and Jam Jam came over, laughing. “Mary, are you okay?”

I laughed, too. “Yeah. I’m fine. I think my muscles turned into lead.” I got up slowly, leaned on the dock, and stood there for a minute, resting, aching, remembering the gravity I hadn't dealt with for the past hour and a half. They asked if I needed help getting up, but somehow I flipped myself onto the dock, feet in the water. I sat. The pushups weren't going to work out, but I just swam a mile.

Somehow I got a towel and a lifejacket--maybe I got them from the blockhouse; maybe someone brought them to me. The horn blew to close the lake, and Scott took me back to the boathouse in the crash. I changed in the Letts and stumbled to the gazebo. Good thing I had the night off.


Saints write all the time about suffering, uniting your suffering with Christ’s,and joy through suffering. They still baffle me, but I caught a glimpse of what they’re talking about. I know full well that I can’t swim a mile, but somehow I did --it was his strength, not mine, that pulled me through.