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Whitney: Swimming challenge turns into test of survival

Stu Whitney
Stu Whitney swims 50 meters while Trever Brenner swims 100 meters at Frank Olson Park on Wednesday. Brenner won the race.

Once upon a time, I was a fast-moving and fearless swimmer. The summer lessons I took at a municipal pool were mainly to assure my parents that I would not drown, but they fueled my wonder for the water.

I was 5 years old when Mark Spitz won seven gold medals at the 1972 Olympics, and I envisioned myself moving through the pool with the grace and power of an elite champion, fighting to the finish before raising an exuberant fist to the heavens.

Of course, my commitment level did not rise to the level of Olympic athlete. I would swim a frenzied freestyle lap before joining a game of Marco Polo with my buddies or making a dash to the diving boards.

If someone asked me if I could do the butterfly, it was the equivalent of them asking if I could speak Mandarin. I would stammer and change the subject.

Maybe that's just as well, because I've noticed on trips to public pools with my own kids that people don't seem to actually swim anymore. They splash in shallow water, rocket down twisting slides and float on rubber tubes – activities that are undoubtedly fun but also enough to make Spitz weep openly for the America that he once knew.

Now that I'm 48 years old and coming off recent heart problems, I am no longer fast-moving or fearless. The last time my kids and I swam to the buoy during our annual visit to a Michigan lake, I brought along a rubber floaty for insurance, a nearly unthinkable symbol of shame.

Then came a chance to change all that, and it came from Trever Brenner.

The 14-year-old from Sioux Falls had seen the "You vs. Stu" feature on my weekly web show SuFuStu and decided to challenge me to a swimming showdown at Frank Olson Park. How quaint, I thought. Another victim.

I was still feeling confident from my 2013 conquest of former Washington High sprinter and current Nebraska football star Nate Gerry, who succumbed to my raw speed in a 100-meter footrace at Howard Wood Field in which I received a 50-meter head start.

My reaction to Brenner's challenge was that I would dispatch of him in much the same fashion, but I failed to consider several key factors.

Like Gerry before him, Brenner is the real deal. The O'Gorman sophomore recently turned heads at a national meet in Clearwater, Fla., and is regarded as a major-college prospect. His best time in the 100-meter freestyle is 49.30 seconds, which should have been an early warning sign that my dignity was in danger.

"Trever has an incredible feel for the water," says Snowfox coach Clyde Smith of his prized swimmer. "He's tall, he's got flippers for feet and he has that perfect swimmer-body mold with broad shoulders and a V shape. He's special."

No one seemed quite as impressed with my body mold when I showed up at Frank Olson for our early-morning race. The Snowfox team was just finishing up practice, and Brenner stood tall and relaxed in his white swim cap while chatting in the pool with teammates.

As he had stated in his challenge, I would be swimming one 50-meter lap and he would swim two, theoretically leading to a dramatic finish at the end as he tried to chase me down.

As I scanned the pool, however, I was struck by how far that distance can seem in liquid terms. Frank Olson is an eight-lane, 50-meter pool, and the opposite end seemed distant enough that I had the brief impression that I was preparing to swim the English Channel.

All my recollections of churning hard for the full length of 25-meter pools suddenly seemed useless in the face of this new information, and I pondered my predicament. I would need to gut this out.

Brenner emerged from the water and I tried to keep him occupied, with the philosophy that I could "ice" him like NFL coaches do to field-goal kickers. His coach just smiled, though, when I brought up my victory over Gerry on the track.

"To be honest," Smith said, "this is a whole different animal. I'm sure you can get down the pool a bit, but keep in mind that air is an important thing. And when your face is down in the water, you're not getting a lot of air."

After pondering that nugget of wisdom, I stripped down to my suit and hopped in the water, which was not nearly as cold as expected. I was surrounded by younger members of the Snowfox team, who stood at poolside and watched me with the interest level of bemused zoo visitors regarding a walrus.

One of them offered me his goggles, which I accepted, and I asked the group for advice. "Just keep your head down and go," they offered, and that became my strategy.

Brenner started in the deep end, which meant I used a standing start and just sort of pushed off when the coach gave the signal. My body sprang forth and I attacked the water with adrenaline-fueled intensity, channeling my inner Spitz.

I imagined myself in the pool of my youth, arms moving rhythmically and feet acting as fins, cutting through clear water with precision and purpose. It was a tremendous start, nearly heroic, and I started thinking about what I would say to my young foe following the race to brighten his spirits and assure him that defeat shouldn't extinguish his goals.

Then something happened. Something awful. I couldn't seem to breathe.

I was lifting my mouth out of the water and trying to draw air, but oxygen had become elusive. Air is an important thing, the coach had said, and I cursed him in my mind. A previously splendid stroke became clogged with confusion, fatigue and finally shame as my pace slowed to a crawl.

Stu Whitney talks about the swim challenge against Trever Brenner at Frank Olson Park.

My mind drifted back to the made-for-TV "Superstars" competition in 1973, when boxer Joe Frazier had nearly drowned during the swim competition, and for a brief moment I feared that I would not finish this race.

Instead I touched bottom (not a disqualification as long as you don't push off) and tried to buy a few seconds while taking stock of where Brenner was in the water. He was nearing the end of his first lap and preparing to make the turn, when he would start hunting me down.

With wild eyes and a thirst for survival, I hit the water anew, slapping at the surface with my arms in a desperate attempt to rush forward. After a few meters, my lungs screamed for relief and my heart seemed to be saying, "What are you doing, you fool!"

Brenner's teammates had assembled near the finish line and were cheering loudly and he surged through the water, and I wondered if my desperation was visible to all these young, healthy souls who might welcome my demise.

Adding to my agony was the reality that I still had a chance to win. I was still in the lead, after all, and the finish line was within reach. But I could no longer touch at the bottom and was having trouble breathing, so I was more worried about dying than losing.

Is this how my life would end, during a taped video segment for the newspaper? And if so, my editors likely wondered, how many hits would the video get online? What would the comments say at the end?

Enough! I shook off these delusional thoughts and forced myself to move forward, actually using breaststroke for a few meters and then something closer to doggy paddle. By the time I resumed an actual freestyle stroke, Brenner had passed me and touched the wall to the shrieks and delight of his friends.

I touched a few moments later, clinging to the wall as if it were an escape raft in the deep Pacific, gasping for breath as the youngsters looked on in horror, their walrus no longer playful. Once I gained my composure, I congratulated Brenner and learned that he was actually worried about losing the race early on.

"When I was coming down on my first lap and saw that you were almost halfway, I got a little concerned," he told me. "But then I got to the deep end and heard everyone cheering, so I figured I was pretty close."

It certainly won't be the last meaningful triumph for Brenner, a rising star on the local scene. My harrowing experience gave me newfound respect for these competitive swimmers, who train long hours and are hosting a meet at Frank Olson Park this weekend.

As I gathered my things and started heading to the exit, I passed a couple of young girls in their suits and swim caps, no older than 8 years old, reminding me of those summer days when swimming was not a test of survival but rather a thrilling aquatic quest.

"Good job," they said in unison, without a hint of irony, and my appreciation for those words was such that I almost shed a tear, knowing that Mark Spitz would have been proud.
