Hubris is a Hell of a Thing

When my daughter, now happily ensconced in a new school, announced that it was Sports Week and that one evening would be devoted to a parents swimming competition, I jumped at the chance to impress her.

After all, I’ve been swimming my whole life. My father, the Colossus of our childhood, had deemed me the most aquatically streamlined of his children and insisted that I swim endless lengths on all water-related occasions. At the age of twelve I swam lengths of the university pool, closely followed by our enthusiastic, long-clawed dog. I swam against fierce currents off the coast of the island we grew up on. I swam lengths of every hotel pool on every holiday we ever had.

Being crap at athletics, pathetic at maths and completely useless at attending PTA Mothers Day luncheons I thought that this was an opportunity to make a contribution to her school life. I pictured myself turning up at the pool and wowing the assembled crowds with stylish freestyle and Olympic-class breaststroke. “Goodness” they would exclaim, “now we know where she gets her talent from.” (My daughter had won all her swimming events the day before.)

In addition, I would be honouring a long family tradition. My father is an excellent and stylish swimmer and I well remember how in my childhood, when our school announced the introduction of a father's race in its annual swimming gala he went into training and we boasted for weeks. On the day, due to some misunderstanding between himself and the starter as to whether the starter should have said “Ready, set, go” or “Ready, go”, he false-started twice and ended up giving an exhibition performance of his immaculate freestyle.

So I dug out my one-piece from the back of the cupboard, shaved my legs and bikini line with the crappy razors they sell in Lima and borrowed Smuggies’ swimming cap. The swimsuit was stretched, the cap too small.

“Mum” said Smuggies in a doubtful tone. “Are you sure you want to compete? You really think you can win?”

“Of course!” I scoffed. “Don’t you have any faith in me? You think I can’t swim?”

“Well whenever we’re at a pool you spend all your time sun-tanning. And you never want to get your hair wet.”

It’s not my fault that I am pigmentally challenged. My older sister took all the brown genes and left none for me. It’s not my fault that water makes my hair expand like a huge fuzzy sponge.

I should have realised that something was amiss when we arrived at 6.35 for a 6.30 event and the pool was already full. Peruvians are NEVER on time. There is an official term for it: Hora Peruana, where one expects all events to start at least an hour late. But these folks were keen. In Smuggies’ last school in England the parents swimming race was cancelled for lack of interest (I was travelling at the time). But here were parents decked out in Speedos, swimming expert-looking warm-up lengths, their latex caps and ergonomic goggles bearing no sign of having been recently bought.

Peruvians, as I may have mentioned before, are generally rather diminutive. The women are well-turned out and apparently physically expert at nothing more strenuous than a twenty-meter dash for a taxi in painfully high heels. Gym attendance consists of mirror gazing and some gentle heel-raises to try to develop shapely calves to match unrealistic-looking boobs. In fact, my sister-in-law claims that exercise stops completely after university.

In addition to being taller and presumably stronger, I figured that I’d have the inherent advantage of the Caribbean island dweller over the denizens of a country which boasts beaches washed by the blood-freezing Humboldt Current. There are penguins and sea lions living off the coast of El Callao for god’s sake!

The parents were to swim for their respective children’s Houses. The British International School of Lima prides itself on Houses named Shakespeare, Dickens, Churchill and, mysteriously, Eckford. I would be swimming for (and hopefully like the) Dickens.

The pool was a classy 25 metre job complete with racing lines, starting blocks and lane dividers. A balcony above housed the spectators – on this occasion presumably proud sons and daughters. Having no babysitter I had brought along the Baby Inca, who was summarily banished to the upper balcony in the care of his sister. Rather nerve-wracking since the balcony railing was a bit low.

I jumped into the mercifully heated pool, paddled across to the Dickens group of parent and introduced myself with the usual cheek kisses. As we were all sporting swim caps and exposing rarely-seen body parts, it was unlikely that we’d recognise each other the next time we met.

Everyone seemed to know what the format was and I was pleased to see that Dickens had more competitors than the other Houses. Almost all were women; short, deceptively mild mannered, with well-muscled limbs and broad backs. I was delighted to note that one had a pronounced pot belly which even her designer Speedo could not subdue. I felt a bit more at home. I recognised a mother-and-father team whose son was in Smuggies’ class. In his miniscule trunks he looked like a Japanese version of Mark Spitz. His wife, on the other hand, looked like the female Michael Phelps complete with knee-length lycra speed suit and a Peru National Swim Team cap. My heart sank.

In the first race – freestyle – the Dickens mother in the heat ahead of me rocketed off the starting block in a long shallow dive, covered three-quarters of the length of the pool with a Man From Atlantis type underwater undulation, and, finally surfacing, touched the wall in two efficient strokes. Fuck.

“Dickens! Dickens!” the chant went up, echoing around the enclosed pavilion. Startled, the Baby Inca began to wail hysterically above.

I adjusted Sumggies’ undersized cap on my head and stepped up on the starting block, trying to suck in my stomach and stop my decidedly squishy post-natal legs from trembling as the whistle blew.

I came second.

But then, there were only two people in my heat.

After that it got worse. I backstroked so valiantly that I still have a black and blue on my forearm where it collided with the wall and my breaststroke, quite adequate for a leisurely swim to the nearest hotel pool bar, proved insufficient to garner more than last place. Emerging red-eyed (I had not deigned to wear goggles) I approached the crowd of mums at the scorers’ table, thinking I had to give my name and House. But no, the women were merely comparing their times to those before them. "¡Gané! (I won!)” cried the potbellied lady exultantly.

I limped back to the Sports Coordinator and explained that the baby was crying; that butterfly was not my best event; and that anyway, there were more than enough parents to make up the relay team.

“Never mind Mum,” said the valiant Smuggies, balancing her traumatised brother on one hip and firmly discarding inconvenient details, “you got a second place.”

As we made our premature exit I reflected on the innocence of childhood. Could it be possible that all those years ago my father had forfeited the possible thrill of victory in order to evade the potential agony of defeat?

Nah. But I will certainly keep the false-start technique in mind for next year. For now I take comfort from the guaranteed future anonymity provided by the swim gear. But should I soon forget this valuable lesson, the razor bumps in my crotch region will serve as an itchy reminder.

By the way, Dickens won.