or thought about running up a hill—before, even, I’d run one step, not to mention walked—I swam. I had yet to reach my first birthday when my mom hoisted my scrawny, diapered body off the cement deck of the neighborhood swimming pool and launched me into deep water, leaving me to thrash and struggle. Not until I was about to drown did she come to the rescue, scooping me up as I gasped for air. But I didn’t cry. Instead, she tells me, I just smiled and cast a glance that, in her interpretation, could mean only one thing—When can I do that again? I can’t say I remember the moment, but I wish I did. What she did may seem harsh, but her motivation was pure: She simply wanted to give me a love of the water. It was the same love that defined her father and my namesake—a man who died long before I was born yet, I’d later come to understand, embodied so much of who I’d soon become. Thus began my own lifelong love affair with water—a passion that would carry me far, yet prove no match for the grip of addiction.
