The smell of chlorine hung heavy in the air, a familiar aroma that usually invigorated him. Today, it felt like a suffocating blanket. He stared at the blue water, the surface shimmering under the fluorescent lights. He’d been a backstroker, a specialist, a master of the graceful glide and powerful kick. Now, he was being asked to try the butterfly.
He ran a hand through his wet hair, the cold water chilling his scalp. He remembered the feeling of gliding through the water, the water pushing him onward. He would start to find a certain peace and clarity. Then, he imagined the intense, exhausting rhythm of the butterfly stroke. His muscles ached just thinking about it.
He pushed off the wall, and the water rushed past his face. His arms felt heavy, awkward. The familiar ease of the backstroke was replaced by a struggle. His lungs burned. He stopped halfway, gasping for air. The other swimmers glided past, their strokes elegant and effortless. He felt the sting of inadequacy.
He gripped the side of the pool, feeling the tile under his fingers. What had happened to the thrill of the backstroke, to the pure joy of slicing through the water? He wanted to go back.