I’m swimming laps on a breezy summer morning when I look up to see ducks in the pool. I like to think I’m good at sharing, but this is ridiculous. I scare the ducks away and keep going, but then stop to think: How often have they been in here?

Over my 12 years on swim teams and 4 years coaching, I have learned that there are many things it’s best not to think about when it comes to my favorite sport. I’ve been thinking about them while swimming laps in the mornings. Some of these taboo questions include: If chlorine turns my hair green, what does it do to my internal organs? Could Speedos get any smaller? I have lots of new swimmers on the the team I coach this summer, and they have lots of questions. So here is what I would tell them about swimming before they get started. Ok, not really.

Coach Martha’s Swim Team Survival Guide

What are we looking at? It’s hard to tell.

1. Don’t feel badly if you gain time at meets. They are so long that you have actually aged noticeably since you arrived. 

People who don’t swim are often shocked to learn that a meet can easily last 12 hours. Easily. Summer meets last only four or five, but it’s so hot that the kids can’t stand on the pool deck in their bare feet without getting second degree burns, and coaches assign new mental significance to the quote “Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.” Many summer races last approximately 30 seconds (winter ones can last up to 40 minutes for the 1,000). This means that some of the fun of meets for swimmers is that you spend 90% of your time hanging out. This is also part of the misery for parents. I’m pretty sure one of Dante’s levels of hell looks like a team area during hour #5 of a swim meet. Antsy children throw caps, goggles, footballs and undersized athletes back and forth, eat pasta and half-melted powerbars and gorge themselves with artificially colored candy that fuels their energy just long enough for them to experience an extreme energy dive directly before their races. A tired coach lays down for a few minutes only to be awakened by a child dancing on her stomach and making hissing noises to show off his lime green mouth. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure he’ll be even more chill after he tries the energy drink his dad just got him.

2. Records were meant to be broken (Please break mine)

My only remaining high school swimming record is from a race I only swam once. It is proudly displayed on a massive board over the pool at one of my city’s most popular YMCA’s. I feel like wearing my swim cap over my face every time I see it. The time isn’t exactly something to be proud of. To be honest, I swam the event on a dare of sorts. Dares get me in so much trouble and apparently haunt me through college. When I was 15, I became horribly sick at a swim meet. I’ll spare you the details–suffice to say I lost several pounds while I was there. I missed my scheduled race because I was in the bathroom. When I arrived back poolside, my coach informed me of this fact and said he had entered me into the hardest race at the meet instead–a race that is no big deal for many USS swimmers, but that is a death sentence for teenage girls with digestive tracks that are randomly in self-destruct mode. After letting me dread this race for an hour (during which I got to know the bathroom even better), he laughingly let me know that he had been joking and said something along the lines that I wasn’t up for it. Oh coach, I’m laughing so hard I’m throwing up. Furious, I  swam it anyway. I don’t remember a lot of it. At any rate, the only reason the record is still there is because the coach can’t get anyone else to swim it. I’ve tried offering rewards, but no luck.

3. That’s not a white swimsuit. His legs are that pale. 

Speedos are one of the worst ideas known to mankind. Let’s put our largest athletes in a small stretchy piece of fabric. Let’s encourage them to buy their suits 2 sizes too small so that they eliminate  drag. Now, let’s put that stretchy piece of fabric in a toxic liquid chemical famous for destroying fabric so that we can make sure the fabric is always nearly see-thru. Perfect. Most guys are understandably uncomfortable wearing a speedo unless they are at a meet. Unless they are in the habit of laying out in their underwear, this means that they always have horrible tan lines. On one of my teams growing up, the boys had “Speedo Day” once a year. It was horrible. The event became less about speed and more about terrorizing teenage girls who have no brothers. I did get one good picture out of it, though…

4. Life is boys against the girls. But it’s not worth dying over. 

One of my favorite things about swimming is that boys and girls get to be together on the same team. This rarely happens in soccer, basketball, baseball, etc. This awesome aspect of swimming can also lead you to do some really dumb things if you are competitive by nature, however. As a coach, I can use the fact that girls will kill themselves to beat boys during practice and meets. Put boys and girls in two different lanes and give them the same workout. I guarantee you they will swim it faster. Combine two events into one heat of boys and girls–everyone will drop time. A desperate attempt to beat a guy lead my older sister to vomit after a race of corkscrew (one stroke on your stomach, one on your back, over and over and over). It lead me to begin to black out after a 50 no-breath. I have been pulled up from the bottom of the pool by my hair in one of dozens of cutthroat games of Sharks and Minnows, and kicked senseless in life-threatening water polo matches. Who wins? It doesn’t really matter. Somewhere along the way of trying to defeat and destroy each other, you become best friends. I’m sure there is an analogy for life in there.

5. Don’t take mafia personally.

During those epic swim meets, kids play Spoons, Go Fish, Poker, and, most famously, Mafia. This game involves drawing an identity, then closing your eyes. The mafia gets to open his eyes and choose someone to “kill.” The sheriff gets to then open his eyes and make a guess arrest. The doctor then gets a turn to chose someone to “heal.” The rest of the people are townspeople, which means you keep your eyes closed for a really long time and wait to die. If you are me, you don’t have to wait long. I don’t know if my Italian last name makes me suspicious, or if it was because I was usually one of only a few girls playing the game, but I am famous for being slaughtered in the first round. If you survive or are healed, everyone gets to make accusations and vote on who they think the mafia is. The mafia spends this time convincing townspeople to kill off each other instead of him. If I ever survived the first round, I was always accused and promptly executed after the first voting session. I distinctly remember being voted off during one male-dominated match with everyone screaming “Witch! Burn her! Burn her!”  It was scarring to a 12-year-old. If this happens to you, don’t get offended. Just put pepper and Parmesan cheese in their drinks when they go up to the salad bar at the restaurant after the meet.

6. You look awful. But Everyone else looks like you. 

The horrible thing about swimming is you have to wear a swimsuit, a swim cap and goggles. The awesome thing is that everyone else is wearing a swim cap, a swim suit and goggles. This means that during the end of the year slideshow, when the picture of you on the blocks taken from behind appears, you can pretend it’s your best friend and loudly say, “Looking tough! That was such a good race, girl.” You don’t have to worry that the lifeguard who looks like Adonis or Apollo is seeing you in a rubber skull cap that rips out your hair and mini eye suction cups that leave you with red circles around your eyes, because there is no way he will recogonize you when you are in street clothes. The fact that you end up looking horrible in practice is actually a really cool aspect of the sport. You can’t wear a speck of makeup and your hair is completely covered. Any friends you make aren’t choosing you because you are easy on the eyes. It is best not to comment on the unattractiveness of your teammates, however. Any girl who has ever said “I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on” to a male teammate when she runs into him at church knows exactly what I mean. I’m hoping I’m not the only one who has done this.

This is just a rough intro guide to swimming. If I were to broaden this post to post-meet activities, I could offer advice about not launching spit wads into the salad bar and how to negate any calories you burned in the 8-hour meet within your first 5 minutes at Fazoli’s. You’ll have to figure some stuff out on your own, though, and other things you’ll never quite understand. Just take a deep breath, and keep swimming: You’re not dyslexic, your lap counter is confused/texting. And you’re right, that’s a firework, not lighting. But the lifeguard wants to go home. 

Want to read more about swimming? Check out my recap of my first season as head coach last year here.

I don’t need to blog about the impact dads have on their daughters’ lives. We’ve all seen studies about how much better life is with a good father figure. But the world probably does need to know that there are some dads out there doing their jobs right. Dads like mine.

We got along pretty well from the start. Game time with Daddy=the best.

Maybe we don’t hear about these dads too often because there aren’t many of them. Or maybe it’s just too hard to really express what they mean to us. There are plenty of songs dads have written about their daughters. They write about how awesome they think they are…and share memories like fishing with their daughters, driving with their daughters, or, especially, dancing with their daughters.  But how often do you hear daughters talk about what these moments mean to them? I can’t speak for what my dad was thinking when he saw his little  bleached blonde girl in a tutu, Nala shirt  and jellies on the dining room table trying to swing from the  chandelier, but I’ve asked Dad about some of his favorite moments. You can listen to all of the daddy/daughter songs from the other side’s perspective, but here is a glimpse into what I was thinking during all of those special moments.

What Daddy saw: A wide-eyed 3-year-old tapping his shoulder at 1 a.m. during a lightning storm, explaining that she was scared.

Yes, I’m in a leotard. Yes, I’m making him play with pink Legos.

What she was thinking: On this particular night, I was thinking that a giant had picked up the house, shaken it, put it down, and was now stomping around the house. My vivid imagination must have been incredibly exasperating at times. I was easily frightened because of it, and remember going to get Daddy on numerous occasions during thunder storms. I also remember him walking me back into my room, putting me to bed, and holding my fist until I calmed down. I  never held hands. I would make a little ball with my hand, and he would completely cover it with his big hand.It reminded me of how big he was–and how he could protect me from anything. He would quietly talk about the angels protecting me and explain that there was no reason to be afraid. He was in the next room. He would save me. He was my daddy.

What Daddy saw: A 5-year-old riding in the  trailer behind the tractor he was driving, dangling a jump rope out of the back. She snagged it on something. Rather than letting go, she held on until it pulled her out  and onto her head in the underbrush.

What she was thinking: On that particular day, it was something along the lines of  imagining that I was the daughter of one of the early Western pioneers in a covered wagon. I was leading my horse behind me with my jump rope. Why didn’t I let go? That part I forgot when I hit my head.  In general, I was under the impression Daddy needed my help with the yard work. If I couldn’t help, he needed me there to talk to him and keep him company. When I was making woodchips with the axe on that log rather than splitting it properly, hauling little twigs while he basically carried felled trees or rode along in the back of the tractor, it never occured to me that I was in the way. Daddy made me feel wanted and interested. He really wanted to know about my dreams to train giant squids at an aquarium when I was older. He really wanted to listen to my 5-year-old, oh-so-uneducated questions about his work with the coal purification process.  He just wanted to be with me, because he thought I was special.

Dancing at a wedding. He had just had massive plastic surgery on his face from an accident at work, but that didn’t stop him from asking his girl to dance.

What Daddy saw:An 8-year-old dancing by the campfire while he played her favorite song on the guitar.

What she was thinking: “He’s playing that for me, because I am the most beautiful dancer in the world. He thinks I’m so good. He watches all of my dance recitals. I wish this song would go on forever. I’m the happiest girl in the world.” Here’s how weekend evenings often broke down: Daddy played, I danced. I didn’t get it at the time, but his encouragement taught me to be confident at an age when many little girls are unfortunately learning to be self-conscious. Daddy made me feel like the belle of the ball–even though my only audience was the rest of my family, the lightning bugs, and the stars overhead.

What Daddy saw: A 12-year old trying to learn how to cast a fishing line in the front yard. She got it stuck in the house gutter behind her  instead of the bucket he had set up for practice.

That day I was determined to show Daddy that I could cast a fishing line. I had this idea that dads with sons went fishing, and felt badly that Dad didn’t have a son to take. When I snagged the dog, a bush, and then managed to get the line horribly tangled in a gutter on the roof, I felt utterly defeated. Dad didn’t say a single negative word. He got the ladder, climbed up on the roof, and untangled it. Then you know what? He started doing cartwheels. Cartwheels. On the roof. As I stood there jumping up and down, squealing in excited terror, any feelings of ineptitude dissipated. My daddy was so cool. He thought hanging out with me was fun, even if the dog was the only thing I ever caught with my fishing pole.

What daddy saw: A 19-year-old swerving down the driveway and running over the election sign he had put in the yard. For the 10th time.

What she was thinking: “Ok. Daddy’s watching. I want him to think I’m a good driver. Don’t hit that yard sign. Don’t hit that yard sign. Don’t hit that yard sign. I LOVE THIS SONG! Thump. I hit the yard sign. Good grief, what’s wrong with you Martha? You can’t even back out of the driveway! What an idiot!”

 If anyone had the right to think I had gone stark mad, it was Dad.  I gave him plenty of reason to worry when I was backing into the family car, getting lost in my home town or falling down the stairs on the way to college classes. But when I was at my most stupid, he was always able to correct the behavior, laugh, and move on. He didn’t make me feel dumb. Sometimes the best way to say “I love you” is giving a smile, walking patiently down the driveway, and straightening your mangled election sign one more time.

What Daddy saw: A 21-year-old peeking over the deck of the ship she had lived on for four months visiting undeveloped countries, unable to contact him for days at a time to let him know she was ok.

What she was thinking: There’s my Daddy. I’m home.

I don’t know a thing about being a dad. I will never be one. But I’m an expert on being a daughter–and I’ll always be one. Here’s what I know: Little girls want to be loved. They want their daddys to think they are infinitely interesting, enjoyable and beautiful. They want to be protected. They want to be wanted. And they want to know wherever they are, whatever they do, they have a home in Dad’s arms.

There’s a big difference in knowing you are loved, and knowing you are worth loving. The best fathers convince you of both.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad! When you were chasing me around the house with a pillow, playing Pretty, Pretty Princess, brushing sticks out of my hair, sewing my Brownie badges on my sash, helping me coach a swim team, tutoring me in chemistry and dancing with me at my sister’s wedding, you were convincing me.

Sometimes strange stuff happens when you travel. People have been asking me for travel tips as they prepare for fun summer adventures around the world. I can recommend hotels and tell you where not to go, but there are some things I just can’t spare you from. I guess it’s more accurate to say I won’t spare you from these moments. Hey, no one told me…

1. Photobombed by a nun

This picture is a classic example of the sort of travel awkwardness I’m talking about. I was 17 on our family trip to Italy. I have always been a bit awkward about posing for photos to begin with (notice the feet together, bowling pin pose). We were at the Vatican at the crack of dawn, so it was pretty empty. I felt safe posing for my big Vatican photo in front of the doors  where no one would see me posing. That’s what I thought before a Mother Theresa-sized nun came out of nowhere and decided to photobomb my picture. Dad snapped it as she was basically beside me. At first Dad thought she was just really far away, but then she almost knocked into me, and it became evident that she was just really petite. And stealthy. I didn’t realize she was there until she was at my elbow. And I jumped out of my skin. In the Vatican. We almost lost dad to an uncontrollable fit of laughter that probably had something to do with his parochial school childhood.

• 
• 2. My underwear broadcast on TV

I always thought of Shakespearean women as being pretty modest. Well guess what? Their skivvies were see-through. I learned this the hard way. On television. When I was 20, I decided to buy a plane ticket to London with my friend Christine. We were visiting Shakespeare’s Globe Theater in London one day, when I was accosted by an enthusiastic curator. She was looking for someone to participate in a period costume demonstration, and I was one of the only people who was the right size in the museum. There weren’t too many people around to see, so I reluctantly agreed. Dumb, dumb, dumb. As I mounted the stage, people seemed to come out of nowhere. Then the curator nonchalantly said, “Oh yes, there is the press. They will be filming for a television broadcast.”

I have blocked the memory, so I will resort to my journal entry from the day:

“I was asked to change in a little closet to one side of the stage into a nearly-shear shift–and Christine could see me change from the audience. The curator had me stand on the stage in the shift to show the first layer of clothing. I was mortified that my undergarments were clearly visible through the shift, to the entertainment of the laughing men in the first row. I was relieved to try on the covering corset, bustle, and dress. We bypassed the rest of the museum.”

3. Handsy Honduran goes heavy on the pina coladas

I think the picture tells the story here. But the backstory is pretty awkward, too. During my stay on the Honduran island of Roatan, I took a snorkel trip to a shipwreck. You had to swim against some currents for a while and also dive down about 18 feet to see the shipwreck that day because of poor conditions. I have always wanted to see a shipwreck, so I was a little over-zealous and swam ahead of the group. Before I knew it, I was out at sea with this guy, giving him plenty of time to compliment my swimming. You can’t really compliment anything else when you are looking at someone in a snorkel mask. It’s super attractive. When we got back to the island, he got thoroughly drunk  and tried to give me and my friends a series of free pina coladas (Shaved ice in Honduras? Great idea!). As we moved to the monkey-feeding part of the tour, he also became increasingly “hands-on” and the real trick of the day ended up being avoiding him. This picture was our tender farewell. He’s stroking my ear, but also has me in a head-lock with his elbow. Super endearing.

4. I see dead people–all over the walls

In some cases, it is wise to research the places you go before you get there. If you don’t, you may find yourself experiencing something you weren’t exactly prepared for. Case and point: this crypt in Sicily. We were excited to see my grandmother’s homeland of Sicily and decided to explore Palermo on foot with little information about the city. Imagine our surprise when we learned that the basement of this church was festooned with dried bodies. They still had the clothes on they were wearing in the 1800s and 1900s when they were pinned on the wall. Their mouths had dried in these horrible positions. There were monks, grandfathers, women–babies. Yes. Uncomfortable doesn’t begin to describe it.

5.History comes alive–and is naked

I’m a big fan of historical accuracy. But I have to take my hat off to the folks at one historical site–because they took just about everything else off. When my sisters and I travel together, we are about 10 seconds shy of a laughing fit at any given moment. It takes very little to send us over. So imagine how I felt when I saw my sister round the corner and come face to face with this guy. She stopped. Her eyes got big. Then he turned sideways. He was wearing no underwear. I saw the convulsing shoulders and knew that if I looked at her face, the laughter would bubble over. So we did what any polite young ladies would do: we ducked into a wigwam. It was too late. The historically accurate reenactor had spotted my pretty sister. We saw his moccasins under the doorway and pulled it together in time for him to jauntily duck inside and strike up a conversation. He had a decided Brooklyn accent, which was startling, since all the reenactors up to that point had been the sort of employees who would probably not break character even at gunpoint (ok, musket or tomahawk point). It threw me off and I didn’t know where to look. This guy made the point of following us around the village for the better part of an hour, as Mom and Dad were mysteriously suddenly fascinated with Indian culture.

As you prepare for your summer travel adventures, remember that plenty of things will happen that you could never see coming. As they happen to you, just smile and enjoy them. Remember, you may only pass that way once–and in the case of  awkward moments, that’s a really good thing.