"We miss her too, Dad."
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The kids meant well, but it was starting to wear thin. The weekly skype calls were starting to resemble a scratched record, or those boomerang videos the young ones thought were such a treat.
"Well, yes I guess you do, but it's different."
A man's supposed to be self-reliant, he's supposed to be the protector, he's supposed to make everything right. He's supposed to fix things. Only some things can't be fixed.
"Well of course it is, but you need to get out. You need to see your friends again." Wait for it... Wait.. "You need a hobby."
"Hey kids, did I mention I've signed up for an ocean swim race?"
There was stunned silence. "What, were you thinking more along the lines of lawn bowls? Maybe darts?"
"When's the last time you swam, Dad?"
"Yesterday." He beamed smugly. "I've been training for weeks at the ocean pool. My times are getting better."
"This is open water, Dad. What about rips, what about swell, what about sharks?"
"What about getting a hobby? I don't have to outswim a shark; I just have to outswim the last guy. Besides, they'll eat the fat ones first."
"This isn't funny. Why do you have to make everything into a joke?"
Well, you know what they say: whatever doesn't kill you gives you dysfunctional coping strategies and a dark sense of humour.
The calls became a little less like Boomerangs after that. They became focused on times, breathing techniques, and discussions of the best goggles, caps, rash shirts and sunscreens. He invested in a kick board and some resistance bands following advice from some of the regulars at the pool. They had told him about some websites and clips to look up, which proved useful. The kids had called that morning just after he got in.
"Hey dad, how's it going?"
"Oh, I'm great," he said, even as he heard Morgan Freeman's voice in his head, saying: "Things were not great". He had been doing more beach swimming in the last week, and realised it was not as easy as he thought; but he could not pull out now. He'd paid his money, he'd bought the gear, he'd announced that he was doing it, so there would be no going back. He didn't like the waves (which was a slight problem in an ocean race, as Morgan would say). He could not predict them and was having trouble breathing without getting a mouthful of water. Eventually he managed to wait and get the waves slapping him in the head and not his open mouth.
Breathe. Slap. Breathe. Slap.
It was exhausting. And lonely.
"You look tired, Dad."
"It's OK. I just need a couple days off."
It was not OK.
The morning of the race was dark and overcast, with a light easterly breeze. He got his number, signed in, and joined the others on the sand.
The waves crashed rhythmically against the shore.
Woosh. Slap. Woosh. Slap.
There were so many people here. It was surprising, and a little unnerving. She'd hated the crowds. Ironic really.
Well, he'd done what he could, and this was it.
The gun went off and he made his way through the breakers with the rest of the bunch. He could do this. The young iron men lookalikes had already surged to the front as he ducked under the last wave and made his way out the back. So far so good, he was still in the middle of the bunch, and he had found his rhythm. He was at the half way mark and he was still towards the middle of the bunch. He could do this.
Then it all changed. The wind picked up and turned to the south-east, and the wave height increased. It was OK, he just needed to get his rhythm back. The pack was moving away, and he soon found himself at the back of the group. The waves were crashing over his head. This was ceasing to be fun.
Woosh. Slap. Woosh. Slap.
The sky was getting darker, and the waves heights were increasing. Another one crashed over his head, and he spluttered as he swallowed a mouthful. He was panicking.
Woosh. Slap. Woosh. Slap.
The rest of the group had spread out, and while he was not the last of them, he was effectively alone. Alone with this grey beast that threatened to end it all for him. His head was aching. His arms were aching. His legs were aching. Salt water was stinging his eyes. He hadn't noticed that before.
Woosh. Click! Woosh. Click!
I can't fix this. I can't fix this. I can't...
Woosh. Click! Woosh. Click!
He took a deep breath just before the next wave hit, and sank below the surface. The world went quiet, and for a moment his body was engulfed in the swirling grey abyss, and he relaxed.
Woosh!! He broke the surface, and the air entered his lungs. He sucked in another lungful and ducked under the next wave.
Then he heard the low voice behind him: "Hey, are you OK?"
He breathed, and ducked under the next wave.
"Keep relaxed and duck under them, you can't fight them."
He ducked under the next wave and the next, and soon the beach was in sight. "OK," said the voice beside him, "Catch this wave in - go."
He found himself on the beach in the shallows, being helped to his feet by a guy in his early forties. "I was worried about you for a minute. You made it. Good work."
"Thanks," he spluttered. "Thanks for your help. What's your name?"
"Mark."
"Anyone ever tell you that you sound like Morgan Freeman?"
His new friend burst into a fit of laughter. "Just all the time. What's your name?"
"Bob." They paused, before they both snorted seawater onto the sand.
Yeah, it was pretty funny.