Abigail Apple joined the swim team on her 12th birthday. Most people would have thought the team just involved swimming. Not Abigail, she thought the outdoor pool was enchanted, a place where swimmers were tested for their courage by ancient Water Spirits.
Most days, she felt like the water responded to her mood. When she was discouraged, the pool rippled stormily. When she was focused, it glowed and stilled. The flags whispered to her to listen to the rhythm of the water. Sometimes, her reflection in the pool even spoke back to her.
Her parents bought her goggles and a plastic swim cap. She even got a new swimsuit with bright and snazzy colors. On the first day of practice, the team gathered poolside on a rainy morning.
As Abigail dipped her big toe in the water, it felt like an ice cube. Possibly, practice should be postponed until the sun came out. Swim Coach Stacey Smoothers had a different idea altogether. As much as Abigail didn’t always appreciate Coach Smoothers’ style, she thought that she was making her a stronger person. She was making her prove her worth.
“Everybody in the water!” Coach Smoothers ordered like a drill sergeant. Abigail kept a positive attitude and jumped in lane two anyhow, even though the water was cold.
Most people just saw a pool. But Abigail knew better. The water had a life of its own—though no one else seemed to notice.
“Today we are practicing The Backstroke!” the Coach said. “Look up at the flags above the pool and count your strokes when coming into the wall for a turn!”
“Actually, I prefer The Butterfly, even Freestyle or The Breaststroke,” Abigail said. “I could really win ribbons and prizes if you put me in some of those events!”
“The Backstroke is a challenge, and you will meet it with triumph!” her coach said. “We are winners around here! I’m going to make a winner out of you, Abigail.”
Abigail jumped on one leg in the water in the shallow end and pulled her right ear, unclogging stopped up water. She knew The Backstroke was one of her tests from the Water Spirits. If she could pass this test, then she could do anything. She quickly counted her strokes to the wall once she saw the flags above her head.
“How do you turn at the wall in The Backstroke? It seems tricky for a beginner!” she asked. “I don’t want to hit my head on the wall.”
“Abigail, no complaining!” Coach said. “Practice makes perfect! Once you reach the wall, you take your last stroke and turn on your stomach and flip. Then, push off on your back under the water. Kick to the surface.”
Even though Coach was hard to get along with, Abigail knew that she needed to stay on her coach’s good side and keep her head low. Then, Coach blew her whistle and yelled: “500-meter Backstroke warm up! Go!”
Abigail bit her blue lips, pushing off from the wall on her back. Then, she saw a reflection of herself in the pool with a medal around her neck. She hoped it was true.
As she pushed off the wall on her back, Abigail accidentally swung her arms and smacked the person in front of her in the lane.
“Ouch! Watch it,” one teammate said. “Give me some space!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Abigail said to her teammate. Coach Smoothers loomed over Abigail, taking notes on her skills. She shook her head and blew her whistle.
“Up on deck, Abigail! One-hundred push-ups!” Coach Smoothers ordered.
“Right now? I’m trying to do The Backstroke,” Abigail said. She climbed from the pool and started her pushups on the slimy deck. When she finished them, she collapsed in exhaustion.
Despite discouragement, Abigail practiced for her first swim meet, thinking of the Water Spirits testing her: left, right, left, right. While swimming on her back, she watched for the flags into the wall and counted her strokes.
One, two, three, four, five, she said to herself, counting her strokes into the wall. Then, she flipped on her stomach and pushed off the wall. Every time she flipped, she hit her head on the cement pool, and her toes barely touched the wall to push off. She stalled for seconds, gaining momentum, finally pushing off streamline underneath the water.
As she coasted through the pool, she had a sudden burst of inspiration—if she practiced The Butterfly when her coach was not watching, then, she could impress her and win her favor. So, in the afternoons, when no one was watching, Abigail disciplined herself to fly through the pool. They said The Butterfly was the hardest stroke of all—but not for Abigail. She watched the older girls and learned from them without any problem.
For Abigail, The Butterfly was effortless, almost like she grew wings when swimming. The first swim meet was at the end of the month, and by then, Abigail would be ready. Each night, she imagined the Water Spirits watching her strokes, whispering “left, right, left, right” as she practiced.
On the morning of the first swim meet, Abigail stood before Coach Smoothers and her clipboard. Coach Smoothers called the team’s events and lane assignments.
“The Backstroke, 12-and-under, Abigail Apple, Lane 4,” Coach Smoothers yelled. “Even if you come in last, you can only get better for next time.”
Abigail swallowed hard with a lump in her throat, not wanting to come in last place.
“Can you put me in The Butterfly, too?” Abigail asked Coach.
“The Butterfly? That stroke is harder than The Backstroke,” Coach Smoothers said. “But if you insist! I guess you can only improve.”
Abigail looked at her feet, feeling proud that she had kept her extra workouts a secret.
“Abigail Apple, Lane 6,” Coach Smoothers said, with a smirk, as she checked off her list. “If you come in last place, Abigail, I don’t care. The other girls are already in other events. I need someone to fill this lane,” the coach said.
When it came time to swim The Backstroke, Abigail did the best she could under pressure. She sprang from her starting block with a splash and counted her strokes from the flags to the wall. Of course, she hit her head on the wall during the flip turn but bounced back and continued the race. With no surprise to Abigail, she finished in last place.
Despite all, Abigail geared up for The Butterfly. When her name was called to stand on the starting blocks, she stepped onto the block like an underdog with something to prove. She knew that the other girls were good, and it made her nervous. She knew she was self-taught and hoped she was strong enough for the race. She nodded to the judges and bent down on the blocks with determination. When the gun sounded for the race, Abigail flew into the pool and underneath the water.
As she came out of the water, she swam neck in neck with her competitor on the other team. The other girls were so fast that she could hardly keep up. She kicked her feet together as hard as she could like an actual dolphin in the ocean.
As she neared the end of the race, she held her breath and stroked harder than anyone expected. The race was so close. She touched the wall as hard as she could, not knowing who touched first. She stood up and looked for her time on the scoreboard. Gasping for breath, she saw that she had out touched her teammates. She could hardly believe it. She won!
The neon sign blinked “24.00 seconds–a new record in Women’s 50 Meter Butterfly.” Abigail looked right at Coach Smoothers who was overjoyed. Like a real winner, Abigail hung on her blue lane line in the pool and clapped for her teammates.
Then, the water around her began to shimmer like glass. Tiny bubbles swirled up her arms, sparkling like fireflies. As the water glistened before her, she felt silver wings unfurl on her back—shimmering, weightless. The Water Spirits had rewarded her.
Gasps echoed through the pool as Abigail lifted into the sunlight—a real butterfly, glistening and free. And for a moment, as she rose from the pool, she wasn’t just Abigail Apple. She was The Butterfly.
Copyright 2015 Jennifer Waters
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