For ten years, from the time I was seven or eight until I graduated from high school, I spent my Tuesday and Thursday nights and Saturday mornings stretching my splits, swimming underwater lengths, and chewing the silicone ends of nose clips. The people who did all of these things with me are still some of my closest friends.
I think we’d probably be friends even if we only met now — we have similar interests and values and politics; we’re all smart and funny as hell — but these are also the only people in my life who know what land-drilling is, and still tense up to do it when they hear certain movie scores (looking at you, Rocky).
I’ve seen them for visits, one-on-one, over the years. Now, for the first time since we were teenagers, after months of emails composed mostly of “YAY!!!!!!!!!” and “This makes me so happy!” the four of us — Jen, Sarina, Danielle, and I — are in a room together in Austin, watching digitized video of our end-of-year synchronized swimming shows.
These are not professional-quality videos. We were not a professional-quality team. We, Cambridge Synchro, were the scrappy inner-city synchronized swimming team of eastern and central Massachusetts and southern New Hampshire. Listening to the stereo crackle and floating voices in the background makes us whisper and giggle as we wait for something to happen.
“I can smell the chlorine.”
“And the Knox!”
During competitions — as well as this show, an early June ritual to celebrate the end of our season — we would put our hair up in high buns, slick it back with hot gelatin, and top the buns with stiff, sequin-encrusted headpieces. The Knox set and kept the buns in place in the pool. It smelled like pee and feathers and formed a crust over our ears, so after the show we would peel it off like glue.
On the video, two people walk out from the locker room, off camera, and take their places at one end of the pool. A spotlight shines on them. I feel an honest-to-god adrenaline rush. “Is that me?”
“No, that’s me and Rebecca.”
A clumsy burst of music from Chicago, a few sweeps of the arm, and they dive into the pool.
A funny thing happens as we watch our routines — we start motioning along with them. In technical parlance, this is called land-drilling. We use our arms to pantomime leg movements and, of course, practice arm movements. With one pool and a dozen routines to keep track of at any given time, we mostly learned and practiced routines through land-drilling.
Sarina and Rebecca were strong and straight-legged, our unofficial A-team. Becca had stage presence: she made wonderfully expressive faces, all while smiling and gasping for air and wearing a nose clip. Sarina had grace and nuance. She and Becca were high out of the water, expertly positioned. On screen, they finished performing, and got out of the pool holding hands. We always held hands at the end of the show.
After fast-forwarding through several routines that don’t include us, we arrive at one of our team routines, for four or more people. Routines like this are what most people think of when they imagine synchronized swimming: rows of shiny heads; lipsticked, ghoulish open-mouthed smiles; splashy arm movements and kicks.
I’m not in this routine, but I know it. I feel it. I feel the tension in my lungs when they go under for long hybrids (the upside-down, legs-in-the-air moves, known as “hybrids” because they are mash-ups of strictly defined figures). I remember correcting where my toes pointed as I arched out of a split in the water. I remember that last, cruel burst of leg strength to get both arms in the air after a particularly punishing sequence of hybrids.
“I know this routine, but I’m not in the water.”
“Me too! Did we swim it the year after?”
“We must have. Bettina’s there, and I didn’t swim it with her. We must have done it the year after.”
We piece our memories together, the way my parents do when they’re reminiscing about which of their college friends lived with whom during various years, at various events: “If x and y were there, a and b must have been here.”
It’s good to have people who remember the parts of your stories you forget.
There are solos in synchronized swimming. Smartasses might ask with whom the swimmers are synchronizing. The music, I suppose. A good solo will eliminate any doubt that this is, indeed, a sport.
Together we watch Sarina’s solo, rapt. Her delicate strength, her expressiveness, earned her a series of hauntingly good solos throughout high school. Legs at a 90-degree angle to each other, perpendicular to her upside-down torso, Sarina moves one in a perfect arc. Instead of being bent forward at the waist, she’s now arched, legs still 90 degrees, but on the other side of her body. And repeat. And again. A feat of ab strength.
“I loved this hybrid.”
“Loved it. Tried to copy it.”
Next up, Jen, Sarina, and Danielle — my crew, the people I’m watching with — swimming to “Baby Got Back.” This was a show routine, choreographed in a week or two before, never competed.
One person stands on the bottom of the pool to lift another. Any given show would have five of these or so. They were photo ops, and a chance to show off choreography skill.
Toward the end, we watch my duet with Joci, performed to music from Anastasia. Joci and I are clad in bedazzled blue crushed-velvet suits with mesh panels at the top. High glamour. There’s a knot in my throat. I loved this routine.
“This was a good routine. You had good doubles, Layler.” (Doubles — double ballet legs. You start by laying on your back on the surface of the water, and then you lift both legs up without letting your face go under.)
“This routine qualified for nationals, I think.” We didn’t go.
Joci and I started swimming at the same time; she was Little Duck and I was Little Platypus. In high school, we drifted apart, but she was my favorite person to swim with. In the video, we swim close, tight together, like we did when we were little. We get out of the water holding hands. I’m crying — in the video, and now, watching it.
In Austin, without Joci, but with my three best friends, my tears quickly turn back into laughter. Laughing about Jen’s small ankles, about the time Danielle made out with the wrong twin, about Sarina’s rallying cry (“Chicken!”), about my perpetual nakedness in the locker room. These are still my sisters. My people. It’s still difficult to explain the closeness borne of sharing an activity and its vocabulary, but in our case, the bond is unwavering — we’re still synchronized, still reminding each other to smile pretty while pushing hard.
Photo via Flickr
Tags: friendship, layla schlack, sports, synchronized swimming
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Oh, I love this so much. It brings back a lot of similar types of memories from chamber choir.
I’m a member of my university choral society, and there are some songs that I never officially learned in four part, but because we’ve sang them so much in pubs and clubs when they come on the sound system, I know the alto line perfectly! Reminds me of the “land-drilling” here 🙂
<3
It’s good to have people who remember the parts of your stories you forget.
Yes 🙂
Synchronized swimming, and swimmers, are vastly underrated. Kudos.
All I can remember about my one brief bout of synchronized swimming is FOOT CRAMPS from trying to point my toes. I salute those who can do it.
Oh the toe cramps! They are painful when they happen, but I still point my toes involuntarily A LOT.
Loved this so much! I was on a recreational summer team every year as a kid, and coached it in high school. Those are still some of my favorite memories.
This was wonderful!
I literally screamed “SYNCHRO ON THE TOAST” when I saw this. I swam for 10 years, also for a scrappy, non-powerhouse team. I miss it every day. Instead of having “naked in class” nightmares, I dream that I am at a meet swimming a routine I don’t know or doing figures I’ve never learned. I still find myself counting instinctively to music and/or evaluating it for use in a routine, and whenever I hear something I swam to I freak out a bit, to the bemusement of whoever I’m with. It’s such a small, odd, and disrespected sport that it really feels special when you come across someone else who GETS IT and has lived all the random weird parts of the synchro life. Thank you for making my day 🙂
I can’t believe no one’s ever made a Bring It On-style movie about the scrappy underdog synchronized swimmers.
For real, I would watch this so hard.
SYNCHRO LOVE <3 I found that the age groups make memory-patching even easier. “No, that was the year J and E moved up to 16-17 and did that awesome Men In Black routine. Remember? We were 14-15, with our horrible recycled Movies of 1994 music.” Did your team also have a cadre of parents, sitting in the stands and sewing sequins onto competition suits? My team’s moms pre-stretched each suit on a pillow, so they all looked like they were carrying scary torso-only dolls. So many beautiful and deeply weird synchro memories!
Also, how often do you have to deal with “it’s not a sport” crap? I just got into a Facebook rumble with some dude (WHY is it always, always men?) who “has a degree in philosophy, and just loves to debate what constitutes a sport.” I’m always tempted to go Full Siren and lure the “not a sport” guys to their doom. Dive in! Try a single ballet leg, and learn just how quickly you can drown yourself!
We did have the cadre of moms sewing sequins in the 100-plus-degrees stands, although my last year or two, we had suits made. That was VERY exciting.
You know, I’ve never actually had the “it’s not a sport” argument. Nine times out of 10, when it comes up, people just look a little bewildered and say “You actually did that? But how…?”
Suits MADE! Big-league stuff! I also think bewilderment is a decent reaction–there’s actual acknowledgement of just how FREAKING HARD synchro really is. How did you respond to the question? I never did figure out a good way.
I haven’t really formulated a good answer. Just kind of shrug. “Yep, that’s what I did.” Sometimes they’ll follow up with more specific questions, sometimes they won’t.
We did have the cadre of moms sewing sequins in the 100-plus-degrees stands, although my last year or two, we had suits made. That was VERY exciting.
You know, I've never actually had the "it's not a sport" argument. Nine times out of 10, when it comes up, people just look a little bewildered and say "You actually did that? But how…?"
I can't believe no one's ever made a Bring It On-style movie about the scrappy underdog synchronized swimmers.
GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRLLLLLLLFRIIIEEEEEENNNNNNNDSSSSSSSSS
1) I am fascinated by synchronized swimming because HOW. For awhile my aqua jogging time was at the same time as a synchro practice and I was always watching them out of the corner of my eyes but trying not to be intrusive. HOW??? DO THEY DO THAT??
2) I am starting my last season of roller derby and fretting over how much I will miss being part of something with people I love and this piece is giving me feels about it.
Love you Layla – awesome writing and insight. Happy you have those memories. xo your first coach 😉
I haven't really formulated a good answer. Just kind of shrug. "Yep, that's what I did." Sometimes they'll follow up with more specific questions, sometimes they won't.
Sweet memories, loving your story 🙂 It took me back to teenager with many beautiful memories!