Sunset swim honors memory of a mother’s passing

I was remembering my mother this week on the anniversary of her death.

Always thought of her as Mom first, of course, but secondly thought of her as a swimmer and athlete. To see a photo of her in a bathing suit captures her in her most comfortable and natural of states, and it’s an image that all our family recalls most when we think of her.

So, on the same date as she died, I went down to Lewes Beach at dusk for a swim in the bay to help honor her memory. It’s a ritual I’ve been doing for years on this day, finding whatever body of water is nearby: a lake, swimming hole, ocean or bay, and I make my way there to swim and remember her. My wife thought it was too late that night to swim, and it probably was, with the sun about to set. But she said, “I understand if you want to do the ritual for your mother.” Hadn’t thought of it that way, but I realize now that’s what it is. We do rituals with - and for - those we love.

Along those lines, I wrote this reflection that I’d like to share. It’s both a summary and a story to help paint a picture of the woman she was.

She was born Barbara Yodice in Brooklyn, N.Y., and started swimming at age 6 or 7 at a local park pool. During the summer water show there, she was recruited to be part of an act and sit on the shoulders of Freddy the diving clown, who jumped into the water from a high diving board. For helping with that stunt, she was given free admission to the pool, and that was the start of it all. Soon she learned how to swim different strokes and began entering competitions. It blossomed from there.

She was recognized by the International Swimming Hall of Fame for her New York Metropolitan and national swimming titles, and her role with the Women's Swimming Association in the 1940s. The team was a powerhouse; they traveled all around the country winning championships.

My mother’s best friend, Charlotte Whitehouse, also swam for the team and was a champion swimmer too, and she introduced my mother to her brother, Artie, who was a sailor on leave from his ship during WWII ... and the rest is history.

Mom was ahead of her time, for sure. An amazing athlete whose Olympic dreams were sidetracked by the war. But she stayed a swimmer, coaching teams all the while we were growing up near the beach and at pools on Long Island.

She had a beautiful stroke, especially the backstroke. She was both graceful and powerful in the water. And since she was a swimmer and Dad a sailor, as a family we were always around the water.

It was a pool in the Chelsea neighborhood of New York, where Mom once competed and set records, that we got our first lessons, and then Jones Beach and later the Hewlett Point Yacht Club where we all got our water wings.

When we were kids, we used to sail in Hewlett Bay, near Long Island. It was very much like the Delaware Bay, with our yacht club perched on one end next to a channel, not unlike the Lewes Yacht Club. When a storm was coming in and the winds were blowing and that water was full of whitecaps, we’d jump in our sailboat with friends and head into the middle of the bay for the thrill of it all. As the winds increased, we’d see our parents on the shoreline wildly waving their arms and yelling. And we would ignore them, of course.

But sometimes, we’d see a female figure wade into the water and begin swimming straight out. And one of my friends would inevitably say, “Oh sh*t, here comes your mother!” Watching her, we all marveled at how quickly she closed the gap, and someone would say, “Look at your mother, she swims like fish, like a dolphin!”

And she did. She glided so gracefully and, to entertain herself, I imagine, she would switch strokes effortlessly.

So I remember her that way, and always will. Her butterfly was dolphin-like indeed. Her breaststroke was masterful (and had won her many gold medals), the freestyle strong and deliberate. But it was her backstroke I remember best, because that stroke had it all: grace, strength, beauty and athleticism. Her long arms alternately dancing across the water, paced just so perfectly, while her kicks were steady and gentle but somehow propelled her like she was a mermaid.

At various times in our swimming lives my sisters and I all tried to imitate that stroke and could never get close, so we realized the difficulty and appreciated her skills all the more. But there was something else about this passion of hers: taken all together, as a swimmer, my mother was poetry on - and in - the water.

So on that day last week, as I swam the bay I remembered my mother, and while I tried my best at backstroke, I still swallowed a few mouthfuls of saltwater. But I laughed to myself and closed my eyes, remembering how it’s supposed to look. And I saw her swimming out there alongside our sailboat, and once again I marveled at it all.