A Bit of Grit

A thing happened today. This 16 year old kid swam from Alcatraz to San Francisco. A lot of kids did it today but those kids wanted to do it. This one did it because he loves his mom. He was terrified. (His first words this morning when I woke him up at 4:45am was, “Mommy, I have some potentially bad news. I’m kinda freaking out.”) 

I knew he could do it. Physically he’s very strong and did very well on swim team last spring. But he has always loved his comfort zone. And not much can pull him out. So it was a surprise when I offhandedly mentioned this summer that I was considering making my 7th crossing on what would be my mother’s 79th birthday and was he interested in coming with me. “Sure!” He said. I immediately registered us.

On the practice swims, he proved the cold and current were not a factor. But his imagination was. He never thought of sharks or sea lions. He was worried about Dracula walking along the bottom of the Bay and coming to attack him from below.

We picked up our registration materials last night. He saw all the other first-timers who were equally as nervous. He got himself a red beanie from the organizers and walked around with his new “Alcatraz Invitational” bag. We went to Krispy Kreme to get the donuts that would fuel him the next morning. It was real.

This morning, way before dawn, we joined 500+ swimmers and 100+ volunteers for the swim. We were briefed about the perfect conditions (“just swim straight ahead”). As the sun rose, we were escorted by a bagpiper to Pier 39 where I bumped into a high school friend’s wife who was swimming with a group including two other 16 year olds. We boarded the ferry together and encouraged each other as we approached The Rock. 

“Do you see the dozens of boats and police on jet skis?” I asked Walker. His biggest concern was being alone in the Bay — probably because he can’t see a thing without his glasses. 

5 minutes to jump. 4. 3. 2. 1. JUMP! And in groups of three, we jump and swim away fast from the ferry. Walker and I regroup as I adjusted my new goggles to keep them from leaking (I never seem to be able to get those sealed properly). “How ya doin’ honey?”

“I’m kinda freaking out.”

So I tell him just to swim forward. He does. Right next to me. We stop. Still uncertain. We swim. We stop. We swim. We stop. “This is fun! I just wrote this amazing story about doing things that are hard.”

“That’s excellent kiddo. But we should start swimming. We’re getting pretty close to being DFL (aka Dead F*cking Last).”

“Can I swim ahead?”

Just like I predicted, as soon as he found his confidence, he took off like a rocket and I was left alone with my thoughts. I have done my job as his mom. He knows how to take his skills and apply them to a daunting goal. And how to overcome the games our brains play, casting doubt on our ability (or plain terrifying us with horrifying images of our untimely demise). In Walker’s path to becoming a screenwriter, Larry trains him on storytelling, and I train him on handling the insanity of the business. 

Walker made it to shore 10 minutes before me. I struggle up the finish with a really sore back but happy (and a little cold). I see Larry and Walker. Give them each a kiss. And when I hug the kiddo, I burst into tears, unable to contain my pride for this incredible young guy who faced his biggest fears because he loved me.

“Did you have fun?”

“Yeah! I’d do it again… Will you help me fix the 3d printer this afternoon?”