It was 10am on Monday, the Labor Day holiday, and I needed Diana Nyad to make it to Florida. I know that most people who may have been paying attention to the story of the 64-year-old woman on her fifth attempt in 35 years to swim the 110 miles between Cuba and Florida wanted her to succeed. Or at least I can only presume most people didn't have any reason to want her to fail. But I needed her to make it. And although now it seems obvious why, it certainly wasn't obvious to me as I sat glued to my computer checking Nyad's real-time position, watching the dot in the ocean representing her coordinates move closer and closer to Key West.
To be frank, prior to Monday I may have heard of Nyad (in the context of her prior attempts a few years ago), but I had never really focused on her. If anything, I likely thought she was out of her mind for devoting her life to this goal (who on Earth would want to swim from Cuba to the United States? Why??). And yet, on Labor Day I found myself fixated and agitated. I felt anxious for her. I worried about box jellyfish sightings. I wondered whether the mild electrical field around her would be enough to keep the sharks away. I wanted to know why her speech was slurred when her team called her in for hydration and nutrition that morning. (Was it the special -- albeit scary -- face-mask to prevent jellyfish stings interfering with her speech? Was she experiencing some type of allergic reaction to something in the water?? Her team reported that they were worried about her airways but had not yet intervened -- why hadn't they intervened???). As I called out to my husband in the kitchen "she's five miles out!", he gently asked "do you think this is marathon-related?" I looked at him perplexed, my brow furrowing. And then my face relaxed into recognition and acceptance. Ah yes. Of course.
Two weeks previously I had registered for next year's Boston Marathon. Those of us who crossed the half way mark but were not able to finish due to the attack were given a special registration period (about ten days) during which we were permitted to sign-up for next year, to have the chance to run again (without meeting any qualifying standards or fundraising minimums) and presumably finish what we started. I have been openly conflicted about this and most of me believes next year is not my year. After I registered, to keep my options open, I proceeded to cry intermittently for days. I'm not sure if I was sad for what was lost this past April, or already anticipating my disappointment next year when I don't show up to the starting line. And yet, in the weeks since registering, I admit that I sometimes find myself day-dreaming about the stretch of the course that passes Wellesley College (about 13 miles into the race). In my day-dream, the sides of the road are lined with yellow daffodils (I read somewhere that somone wants to plant bulbs along the race course so that they bloom in April; a kind of force-field of flowers carrying the runners through to the finish). In my day-dream, I am surrounded by people who understand: people who ran last year and couldn't complete the race; people who were at the finish and saw the horror; people who want Patriots Day to again be one of innocent celebration. Although technically further away in time, I imagine that the world on race day 2014 feels closer to the events of April 15, 2013 than it does today, five months after. There will presumably be reflections on the prior year; a resurgence of stories both sad and triumphant. In my imagined April 21, 2014, the reinvigorated focus on the marathon bombings and its aftermath is something to which I feel connected, and which connects me with the others who come out for the race, whether to run or to watch. The feeling I have when I envision being there is not really one of vindication against the attackers; I don't feel motivated by bravado. It is more a feeling of understanding by, and commiseration with, my fellow runners and Bostonians, of communal recognition that even a year later (a generally accepted period of mourning), there is still a rawness (as I expect there will be), but nonetheless an exuberance in being together to pass this anniversary and welcome the new era of the Boston Marathon. Changed, but not necessarily for the worse.
A friend recently shared a Rawandan proverb with me: "You can out-distance that which is running after you, but not what is running inside you." If I'm honest, I had to read that a number of times before I could make sense of it. I have concluded that there is a lot of wisdom in it. But what happens when what is "running inside you" is a race that cannot ever be finished? A distance that cannot ever be covered? After completing her swim, Nyad shared several words of wisdom. "Never ever give up." "You are never too old to chase your dreams." And "find a way" to make your dreams happen. That is inspiring but also a whole lot of pressure. Not only to pursue your dreams at all costs, but also to know what those dreams are; to know what is running inside you and how to make it stop (or at least slow down). Nyad has arguably accomplished both, outdistancing sharks and jellyfish while also finally achieving her long-standing dream of crossing the Florida Straights. She had said that this would be her last attempt, no matter the outcome. I wonder if that would have been true, if she could walk away having not succeeded. I also wonder whether the moment she touched Florida sand, after 53 hours in the water, erased her prior disappointments and failures. Was that the end to her 35 year journey, or just the end to her 53 hour one? I wonder whether what is running inside me is really anything to do with not finishing the marathon, or much more to do with the threat to my family that was too close and too real. A matter of seconds and feet that made all the difference. One side of a street as opposed to the other. What I do know is that right now my tolerance for disappointment is extremely low. In recent weeks, when people or circumstances have failed to meet my expectations, I have felt it with a depth and duration that is abnormal. That's not to say my disappointment isn't real or justified; just that my reaction to that disappointment is disproportionate. On April 15 the world did not meet my expectations. It defied expectations. And I now find myself trying to make sure it doesn't let me down again, feeling that if I stare hard enough at the dot on my computer screen I can force Diana's arms and legs to continue moving her forward; I can telepathically push the sharks and jellyfish away; I can will her to the shore. Because I needed her to make it there safely, this woman I've never met. I needed her to go before me, and to not come up short. I couldn't bear her disappointment, or mine, if she had failed again. Because I know I'm still in the water; but if I squint hard I'm fairly certain I can see twinkling lights letting me know that land is within my reach.
