Three day swim meets are the absolute worst. Did I volunteer to work three of the five shifts available? Yes. Did I pick up a fourth shift out of the graciousness of my heart? Also, yes. In total, I worked for twenty hours between Friday night and Sunday night. Only one person worked more than me, bless her heart. No, really, bless it. These things take a toll on one’s body, mind, and soul. As I shall soon enlighten you, be confident that my opinion of working these wet hells (commonly referred to as swim meets) comes from a place of utter reliability and truth.
The noise. Splashes and squelches and screams.
When a gazillion mostly naked swimmers are packed to together into a small, enclosed space, they make a lot of noise. The relays are the worst. Then, both ends of the pool are packed full of screaming, hooting, hollering, and whistling athletes in various states of dress. Nothing, I repeat nothing, is worse than having that fingers-in-the-mouth-high-pitched-ear-shattering-death whistle one foot from one’s ear. Furthermore, if that wasn’t bad enough, the breaststroke is the bane of my humanity. The word “go” has lost all meaning for me. I wish to never hear it again. Let alone every single time the breaststroker pops their head out of the water. Every. Single. Time.
Personal space? What’s that?
There you sit. Alone on a white chair, stopwatch around your neck, clipboard and pencil in hand. All around you are people. Swimmers. Coaches. Referees. They walk in front, around, and behind you. Your chair becomes a towel rack when you’re not looking. Your bright yellow shirt with EVENT STAFF printed loudly on the back simply means that when you trail blaze through a pile of swimmers to get to the plunger* a mere five meet away from your chair that they begrudgingly let you through.
*A button pressed when the swimmer finishes, sending a tidal wave of water onto you. (The butterfly and freestyle are the worst offenders for splash volume and height). Requires a visual of the edge of the pool where the touchpad resides.
If you’re one of the lucky ones, you work the diving table. They don’t get wet, don’t have to deal with people yelling in their ears, and don’t have to plow through people. Also, they get to watch diving, which is, in my opinion, the only really interesting part of a swim meet to watch as a spectator, and they usually finish earlier. Lucky folks, although their job is more stressful when diving is going on because they can’t mess up a single score. “5, 5 and a half, 5, 5, 4 and a half, 5.”
After my fourth shift was over and done, I ripped that XL abomination of a t-shirt off my back, dried my feet, and walked out, inhaling the fresh night air as I finally emerged from the watery depths of the gym.
