Ervin Anthony - Chasing water: elegy of an Olympian

Acknowledgments

First and foremost I want to acknowledge and thank Constantine Markides, a.k.a., Conz or the Conman, without whom this book would have never happened. I cant imagine anybody else was up to the task of managing the sudden sea changes of my creative, writing, and remembering processes. There were many verbal and written battlesbattles of persuasive diplomacy and open hostility. And yet, I cannot deny that we are a great team.

Next, I must thank Emily White, who works tirelessly for my benefit in all areas, but with a certainty drove forward the publishing and writing of this book. Without you, Emily, I do not doubt that this book would still be something Conz and I would be talking about one day doing. Instead, the book is done!

I want to acknowledge Lisa Gallagher, my lit agent, and Johnny Temple of Akashic Books, who took a chance on us.

I want to thank all of our friendsConz and minewho gave us places to stay, food, and drink while we did research and interviews.

A special thanks to Rebecca, whose work on our family genealogy led to some of the coolest parts of this book.

And, of course, I have to thank my family for everything ever. Love you.

Anthony Ervin

In August 2012, Rolling Stone published The Rebel Olympian, the embryo of this book; thanks to RS and editor Sean Woods for helping pave the way. Once on our way, it was far easier because of the generosity of so many, all of whom cant be listed here: Coleman Barks, Casey Barrett, Mike Bottom, Melpo Charalambides, Natalie Coughlin, Amir Dibaei, Dave Durden, Nick Folker, Rowdy Gaines, Gary Hall Jr., Mamade Kadreebux, Lono and co., Della Lorenzetti, David Marsh, Teri McKeever, Lars Merseburg, Steve Neale, Milt Nelms, Derek Van Rheenen, Alex Schliefer, Margot Schupf, Gareth Williams, and Joe Jacobs, to whom a promise is hereby fulfilled.

We are indebted to our talented visual artists: the photographer Mike Lewis; Armando Garma-Fernandez for the tattoo illustrations; Frank Zio for the graphic art. A noreaster shout-out to Alison Hill for offering her home and art studio as our offshore brainstorming retreat; to Mary and Matt Weber for the fortifying keg of Monhegan Brewing beer and bucket of sea bugs; to Star and Moon and Charley the one-legged seagull for their company.

A special thank you to our literary agent, Lisa Gallagher, for skillfully assisting through any vines and tangles, and for believing in me and standing by me for so many years; to Anthonys manager, Emily White, for her unflagging energy and creative outside-the-water thinking; to Dave Zirin, who honors us by launching the Edge of Sports imprint with this book; to the excellent team at Akashic BooksJohanna, Aaron, Susannah, Ibrahim, Katieand to Akashics publisher and our attentive editor, Johnny Temple, for his belief in and commitment to this unorthodox hybrid, Hydra heads and all.

I am especially grateful to Anthonys parents, Sherry and Jack, for their hospitality and generosity during the research, and to his brothers Jackie and Derek. My love to my parents, Emily and Kyriacos, and to my sister, Vasia, swimmers all of them: they support me more than they can ever know.

Adequate gratitude cannot be expressed here to Claire Barwise, who devoted incalculable hours at every stage and whose editorial acumen and exceptional feel for language left no sentence unturned. This is a far better book because of her. Last but foremost, my enduring appreciation to Anthony for having the belief and mettle to bring me onboard and put his life at my fingertips. I dont know anyone else who would have dared so mercurial a passage with me.

Constantine Markides

But Hermes did not find great-hearted Odysseus indoors,

but he was sitting out on the beach, crying, as before now

he had done, breaking his heart in tears, lamentation, and sorrow,

as weeping tears he looked out over the barren water.

Homer, The Odyssey

Sydney, Australia, October 1, 2000

Its just me and the bartender. Maybe a handful of us are left in the entire hostel. The bartender leans against the bar, looking up at the TV. He glances at my pint glass.

Another Victoria Bitter?

I nod. He watches the TV as he pours. The closing ceremony has started. The athletes enter the stadium, the gold medalists leading the procession. Gary is somewhere out there. I think about my medal, buried in dirty laundry in my bag under the bunk bed.

The athletes converge into the center of the track and the stadium darkens. The crowd roars as the show begins. Bands perform, floats roll in and out, strobes swing around. The stadium is now a throbbing sea of revelers leaping and yelling and punching at giant balloons. Midnight Oil comes on. How do we sleep while our beds are burning?

Its going off, the bartender says. You just know theyre all on the piss. Hell of a party to be at.

I think about the man who threw me out of the Olympic Village.

No doubt, I say. Hell of a party.

I finish my beer and step outside. A crescent moon hangs over the breaking water, a sliver of violence. The ocean is loud, belligerent. It seethes.

I head back inside. It reeks of stale beer and smoke. On the television Paul Hogan is buffed out as Crocodile Dundee, perched on a float of a giant black safari hat and giving a thumbs-up to the cheering Olympic stadium.

My mouth tastes of ashes. I push my glass toward the bartender. One more bitter.

PART I

THE DIVE

The Ready Room

I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illnessa real thorough-going illness.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground

Are you ready for a good time? Are you ready ready ready?

AC/DC, Are You Ready

London Olympics, 50 Free Final, August 2, 2012

The reigning Olympic champion is beating his chest. His hand is cupped, which makes the sound even louder. A few others start doing it too, some sitting, some standing. The chest-slapping echoes through the makeshift room. Does inducing blood flow to these muscle groups really make any difference? Or is this a war cry, a preparatory battle sound? Maybe its a confidence boost.

Drop these thoughts. Theyre distractions. Theres no room for error in the 50 and distractions lead to error. It is a truth universally acknowledged that an athlete in pursuit of victory must be in want of an empty mindwhy is Jane Austen in my head? My thoughts are swinging like monkeys from vine to vine. I try to turn my focus back to my upcoming swim: the start, the breakout, the swim, the finish. Its a constant tug-of-war, rehearsing my game plan without letting other thoughts interrupt it. If the thoughts come along I try to just recognize them and let them go. Same idea behind meditation.

But I cant maintain my focus, cant help but circle back to the chest thumping. Csars pecs are mottled red from the blows. Maybe all the hitting is a cry for attention. I look down at all the tats covering my arms. Whos to say these arent a cry for attention too? Maybe Ive also inflicted pain on myself to stand out and be noticed. Ive always talked about them as my way of reclaiming my body after I left the sport, but maybe thats just me trying to make something noble out of my peacocking.

Races are won and lost in this room before they even begin. It can get intense: some pray, some smack themselves, some try to intimidate their opponents by staring them down. Right now a few guys are bouncing on the balls of their feet, pummeling and kneading their muscles, shaking their dangling arms. A couple are praying and murmuring to themselves. Im sitting perfectly stillironic, because my mind is all over the place. Howd I get here again? Its been twelve years and Im back in the ready room of the 50 free Olympic final. In a few minutes, Ill once again vie with seven other swimmers for the title of fastest swimmer in the world.