“Children, never swim alone. You can drown
in a teaspoon of water.” – My 3rd grade swim teacher
A few weeks back our training group was warming
up with a descending set on 50s. Four on :50 seconds, four on :45, then :40,
and finally four on :35. A set we do multiple times a week; going back many months.
I make the effort each time to swim breaststroke the first round, backstroke the
second, and then freestyle the last two rounds. The breaststroke is no Sunday
stroll – the weakest of the four strokes for me. On this day swimming
breaststroke was no different. I went last in the lane, and pushed to make the time
send off. Backstroke would be easier. Then freestyle the easiest. Except this
time, when I pushed off for the backstroke round there seemed to be a different
sensation. Something does not feel right.
No air. Each breath just drew in enough oxygen to keep me from passing out.
My breathing quickly changed to shallow gasp. Where is the air?!? As if I swam through a pocket of outer space. The vacuum of space has no end. Each
gasp seemed to grab less and less air. My throat constricting. I’M SUFFICATING! The lizard snapped his
chains. Free at last. He raced to the frontal lobe, claiming marshal law. I
lost control of my command center, so void of agency I jumped me out of the
pool.
Since beginning swimming at age 12 I have logged
over 10 million yards. (Roughly swimming from San Francisco to New York City,
and then back.) Of those yards swam, hundreds of thousands have been spent
underwater training my lung capacity. Breath control in the water is rudimentary
for me. One foot in front of the other. Blinking. Breathing. However, this instance
was the first time I fled a pool. Screw woman and children, good luck to the
elderly, and forget the dogs and cats -- I had to get out. The grasp of time
and space takes on a very finite existence when air alludes. And Death taunts. What the hell is going on!?! You’re dying man. I gotta get it together. It’s too late man, you’re dancing
with me now.
Breathe. Don’t
pass out on the deck man, or you’re mine. Breathe. They’ll have to call 911, and it’ll take too long. Breeeeathe!
I walked around the pool deck to regain my
faculties. Breathing in and out. Filling my lungs to the max with every breath.
Oddly, no other swimmers seemed affected by the sudden loss of air. Actually, the
air was fine. It was entering my lungs in volumes. My lungs were perfect. Then
it hit me… panic attack. I quickly recalled
my wife describing similar sensations when she had them in her early 20s. She
talked of attacks hitting her randomly; struggling to breathe, needing to flee,
and the feeling she was dying. Holy crap, my first panic attack. And it would
not be my last.
