Facing the Fear I Didn’t Know I Still Had

We were on a family holiday in Hamilton Island, Mum, Dad, my two brothers and me. I was really young. I don’t remember anything about the trip, except one thing: the pool. And what happened there.

It was beautiful weather. We’d gone down to the pool to relax. From what I recall, someone jumped in and didn’t see me. They landed on me, hard, and knocked the stuffing out of me. I sank. I remember being at the bottom of the pool with no energy, no breath. I tried to swim up, but I couldn’t. I had nothing left.

My body went limp. Everything faded. Bright lights appeared. This was the end.

Then, a force. Strong arms. An older man had seen me and jumped in. He ripped me off the pool floor and brought me to the surface. I gasped. The sun hit my face. He placed me on the edge and swam off.

I was still trying to catch my breath when my mum swam over.

“There you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

She had no idea what had just happened. I don’t think the man who saved me really did either.

He just dropped me down and disappeared.

That stranger saved my life.

To this day, I still get tightness in my chest when I swim. That feeling of not being able to breathe comes back. It never fully left.

I had stopped playing football abruptly in 2016 and never played properly again. I was 23. That chapter had ended, and I felt a gap like I needed something new to aim for. A challenge.

That’s when I decided to do a triathlon.

I loved fitness and I loved a challenge that’s why I did it. But I was still wary of the swimming part. I figured I’d just start slow, get in the pool and swim some laps. At first, it was a 25-metre pool. Then, as I got more confident, I moved to a standard 50-metre pool. I kept showing up. And I don’t do things in halves. It’s all or nothing.

I trained for months. Taught myself everything, swimming, riding, running.

I got a good bike. I trained hard. But I avoided the ocean.

Race day came. A warm summer morning in Melbourne. I was nervous but ready. I just wanted to finish under 3 hours. That was my goal.

Standing on the beach, waiting for the start. The gun went off. I ran into the water.

And then, dread.

This wasn’t the calm pool I’d been training in. This was Port Phillip Bay. Open water. People kicking, splashing, moving everywhere. I seized up. I couldn’t breathe. That old fear came back like a wave. I froze, bobbing in the middle of it all.

What the fuck was I thinking? Why didn’t I test this out before today?

I was ready to quit.

But something shifted.

FUCK this, I thought. I can do this.

Something primal kicked in. I started swimming fast. Strong.

I’d lost time, but I caught up. Passed people.

Finished the 1.9 km swim. Ran to my bike.

Rode 40 km.

By the time I hit the 10 km run, my left knee was aching. Around the 4 km mark, I had to slow down. Walk. But I kept going. I ran when I could.

I crossed the finish line at 3 hours and 2 minutes. Just two minutes over my goal.

I came 7th out of 14 in my category.

I was overjoyed.

It felt good. I’d done the whole thing myself, trained, planned, committed.

Because the race started so early, I was finished by 10 a.m. It was a beautiful Saturday, and I went out to Chapel Street for drinks with friends to celebrate in the afternoon.

On Monday, I got to work and my friend A asked how my weekend was.

I told her I’d done the triathlon, that my knee was sore but I was happy I finished. I explained I didn’t like swimming that I’d nearly drowned once and froze in the bay.

She looked at me and said, “Chris, that is absolutely amazing.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yes. Well done.”

And I was taken aback. I hadn’t really thought that deeply about it.

But once I did, yeah. It was a solid achievement.

I wish I could say I conquered the fear. But it’s still there.

I still get tight in the chest, still feel breathless sometimes in the water.

But I enjoy getting a 1 km swim in when I can. Usually at a pool.

And I’m content with that.