To the average onlooker, I’m one of those people who appears to be athletic. I’m not. I have real coordination issues that make my attempts at sports laughable. So, when I try to kick a ball, there’s a seventy percent chance that my foot will miss the ball; when I shoot hoops, there’s a two in ten chance that I will actually score—if I don’t hit the rim and send the ball bouncing back after me. I’m also terrible at handball and volleyball because the mere sight of a ball hurtling towards me sends me running in the opposite direction—I do not trust my body with sports.
The two things I can do are running—long distance—and working out (that counts right?). As a child, I tried hard to add swimming to my pitiful repertoire, mostly because everyone always said, “you look so athletic, you should be a swimmer.” I stopped trying because I was terrified of being under water and hated the feel of water in my nose or ears. I was a proud, self-proclaimed frolicker—content to hang out in the shallow end of the pool or on the sand.
But then I moved. To an island.