Water

• Sally Pritchard, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2016

Sam inhaled a deep breath of air, letting the warm weight of it rest in her mouth before exhaling. She could almost taste the chlorine; its pungent aroma seemed to be ingrained in the air around her and would linger on her skin for the next few hours. With the grace gained from constant repetition, she pulled down her goggles, tinting the world a familiar blue, and knelt down into her starting position. The cacophony of sound surrounding her faded into a muffled roar, only to be pierced by the bang of the starting gun. Sam’s instincts kicked in, legs pushing her forward and her arms cutting into the water first before the crystalline liquid enveloped her completely, flowing like silk across the bare skin of her arms and legs.
Sam couldn’t help but relish the familiar serenity that followed after diving. The roar of the crowd falling even further into the background as she focused completely on the way her body cut through the water. These few seconds were her favourite, as each stroke she made seemed to further empty her mind until all that was left was an acute awareness of the water surrounding her. It’s in these moments that she forgets about her competitors who swim alongside her and it isn’t until her lungs start to burn for air that she remembers why she’s here. She’s here to race; to win. So with one final stroke, she propels herself upwards, breaking through the surface of the water and filling her lungs with air as the roar of the crowd assails her ears once again. The serenity of the moment slips away and is instead replaced with the rush of competing, igniting the blood in her veins in the most delicious way.
Let the race begin.