The Summer of Belly Flops
The summer I learned to hold on tight, close my eyes and persist
No one signs up to do a hundred belly flops in a row.
But after suffering through a summer of Swim Team, I knew enough about the hell of morning practices, frigid water, tight swim caps, and Speedo wedgies to know better. So, in the summer of 1996 — nine years old and desperate never to touch a kick board again — I asked my mother to sign me up for something new. I wanted to join the Dive Team.
My first day of practice two things became clear. One — the coach was unfathomably gorgeous. (Imagine a young John Stamos with abs for days and a surfer’s nonchalant attitude and you’re in the ballpark.) Two: I was in way over my head. The older athletes jumped off the high dive, flipping, spinning, diving with ease. Meanwhile I practiced my “approach” on dry land. (Four steps, a little skip, then the bounce.) Soon enough, the coach had me up on the board. I was fearless in the way only a little kid who has never been hurt can be.
We had a trampoline at home, and so the first few dives came easily enough. I could do a back flip and a front flip, no problem. By this point, I was pretty certain I was a dive prodigy. The coach then told me to try a front one-and-a-half — a front flip followed by a dive. “Jump, scoop forward, and stay tucked in that ball until your head lands in the water,” he said. “Don’t open up at all.” I nodded, jumped off the end of the board, made a full rotation, opened too soon, and landed smack on my belly.
“That’s alright. That’s alright,” he said. “Try again.”
I tried again, and my whole body slapped flat out on the water.
Again — another wallop.
Over and over, I flipped and belly flopped. Flipped and belly flopped. I couldn’t seem to force myself to hold into that tucked ball position. By the end of practice, my entire torso and upper thighs were bruised black and blue. Persistence and psychosis are cousins. I just wouldn’t quit.
Yesterday I was at the YMCA (my favorite, non-sexy gym) and I looked around, shocked to see so many people working out on a Sunday afternoon. Maybe it’s partly due to the 95-degree heat outside, but I also think that part of the reason so many of us were in the gym is because we have borne witness, these last 10 days, to feats of epic athletic grandeur. It was as if we all looked up at the television at the exact same moment and had the exact same thought. ‘Yikes, I should really go to the gym.’
Katie Ledecky, Noah Lyles, Simone Biles — these athletes’ names will go down in history, (at least until others come along and replace them). And yet, as I watch the Olympics, I can’t help but look at all those people in the pool trailing Katie Ledecky by many seconds, and wonder: How must it feel to line up at the start of the race, already aware that you’re not going to make it to the podium?
You know you’ve been hoodwinked by winner-takes-all thinking when you’re staring at some of the top athletes in the world and feeling bad for them. My therapist would say that I was watching the Olympics through the lens of shame. And she would be right.
The truth is, my dive career didn’t take off after that summer of belly flops. My family moved the following summer and we no longer had access to a community pool or a hot diving coach. C’est la vie. Some might say that all those belly flops were wasted effort. But that’s not how I remember it. Not at all.
After many failed attempts, I decided to try one last time.
I walked out to the end of the board, jumped as high as I could, and held on for dear life. I completed a full rotation, and kept holding on. Water rushed past my ears, shoulders, torso and legs. I still remember the roar of joy I felt in my heart, how I smiled and screamed underwater, how I came up with my fist in the air. The shouts and cheers and claps of my teammates. The laughter. The tiny taste of victory. Still sweet. I never stood on a podium with a gold medal around my neck. But I had that feeling. I remember that feeling. And I get to keep the feeling.
Right now, as I endeavor toward finishing my second novel, I feel a lot like that younger version of myself, attempting and attempting and attempting, wondering whether all the effort will pay off. The truth is I don’t know. I don’t know, and perhaps that’s why it’s so exciting. I might fall flat on my face a hundred times. But there’s a chance that I might just pull this thing off. And so, I keep going. What other choice do I have?
Diving taught me that. Beauty comes with bruises. And it’s worth it in the end. Even if there are no medals.
Recent Favorites
Read: The Family Fang by Kevin Wilson. If you’ve been around here a while, you’ve probably seen me recommend Wilson’s other novels “Nothing to See Here” and “Now is Not the Time to Panic.” (Both incredible.) After several DNF books this summer, I decided to grab his debut novel in an attempt to break out of a reading rut, and I was not disappointed! It’s the story of a talented artistic couple, and the pain and trauma they inflicted on their children in the name of “art.” Also, as a fan of Wilson’s, it was so cool to read his original novel and see the seeds already there for the other two that came next. Highly recommend!
Recipe: This summer, Patrick and I have been trying to cut costs wherever we can — and I decided that the weekly “pizza night” was eating too much money. Enter this recipe for Roberta’s Pizza Dough. Five ingredients, super simple, incredibly delicious.
One More Thing…
I have really enjoyed taking a big break from writing The Forest Is Mostly Dark, but I’m back for the semester and excited to share more stories, words of encouragement, and glimpses into the writing process. As always, please share if there are questions you have or topics you’d like me to cover — and I LOVE receiving e-mail responses to this newsletter, so please write me back! What’s a time that you learned the gift of persistence? Have you ever had a taste of victory? Share your stories in the comments or via e-mail. I can’t wait to read!
I am working this August to help teach perseverance to my eldest. She has a charmed life (parents who are together, siblings who adore her, good & healthy food offered at each meal, brains like you wouldn’t believe, etc), so she’s never had to work at, well, anything. I’ve been encouraging her to run … something she does have a gift for, but is still really hard. And despite some rough interactions (she’s fantastic, but still a pre-teen who can have attitude), I’ve watched her begin to dig in and push through the hard in ways I’ve never seen in her before.