After the plunge, her nerves were washed away.
Butterfly stroke to the end of the pool, just as her dad had taught her.
Her arms shoveled water. Push straight toward your feet, she heard him say.
Again. Again. Catapulting herself forward, swooping, dipping, reaching for space. Her arms circled overhead, cartwheeling, swanlike. Then her hands dredged the pool for deeper and more satisfying armloads of water. Past her gut, down to the core of her being she dug, summoning, up and over, diving deep again.
Then, thunk. She grasped the wall. And in her mind—win or lose—her dad smiled.