Heading into the water I was afraid. The voice got louder with every wet step.
“Why in the world are you doing this? You’re crazy! You’re never going to finish this and you might even die!”
It was my first, and to this date, last, triathlon. My brother and sister-in-law had somehow convinced me. I’m still trying to figure out how they did this eleven years later.
That morning the winds were already howling at 25-35 miles per hour. The first leg of the event was a ¼ mile swim directly into the big white caps created by the strong winds. Swimmers were being sent into the water in groups that had some level of organization, which I can’t remember.
As I waited with my group I looked out into the water and the waves. There were lots of boats and jet skis right in the path of the swimmers. I wondered what in the world they were doing.
It didn’t take long to figure it out as I watched swimmer after swimmer being pulled into a boat or onto the back of a jet ski. The waves were so high that many swimmers simply couldn’t handle it and had to be rescued mere moments into the triathlon. If you are pulled from the water you are done for the event. Finished almost before you started.
Needless to say, my anxiety level increased immensely. The voice got louder as well. “WHY IN THE WORLD ARE YOU DOING THIS? YOU’RE CRAZY? YOU’RE NEVER GOING TO FINISH THIS AND YOU ARE LIKELY TO DIE!”
Of the three events of a triathlon, swimming, biking and running, the swim portion was the one I dreaded most. I wouldn’t even consider myself an okay swimmer. As I entered the water I wondered how long it would be before someone pulled me into their boat or on their jet ski.
It didn’t take long for me to begin to struggle as the waves pounded my entire body. I felt like I was making absolutely no progress and even thought I may be going backwards. Already, I’d seen several people from my group reach their arms up in submission as one of the water vehicles came and scooped them up.
One of these volunteers obviously recognized my struggle. He positioned his jet ski by my side and asked if I wanted to get out. I don’t think he said quit but, in essence, that is what he was asking. I couldn’t quit. I’d trained for this for several months. The thought crossed my mind as I continued what seemed to be a futile battle into the waves and more and more around me surrendered.
The jet ski helper then asked me if I wanted a life jacket. A life jacket? I didn’t even know that was a possibility.
“Can I do that?” I asked as I spit out water after each wave.
“Sure,” he responded. “If you want to keep going you are welcome to a personal flotation device.” For some reason he felt the need to formal all of a sudden.
I remember thinking that in some way my completion of a triathlon would be tainted by taking a PDF. In the triathlon record book there would be an asterisk by my name. I was reluctant to accept the help.
Over the course of the last several years I have become aware of this reluctance to accept help. The triathlon was no different. It seemed as though grabbing for the life jacket was a sign of weakness.
Somehow, I was able to set aside my pride and take the life jacket. I wasn’t even a third of the way done with my swim when I did. There is no way I would have finished if I hadn’t acknowledged my need for assistance. Without the PDF I wouldn’t have been able to complete the triathlon.
Pride is nothing more than selfishness disguised as self-sufficiency. Letting go of our pride takes a lot of courage. Letting go of our pride is not a sign of weakness but a sign of strength. Admitting we need help is a sign of maturity. We weren’t created to do life alone and yet all too often we let the waves of life pound us down when all around us people are willing to help if only we’ll let them.
Is there something in your life you are struggling with today but don’t have the courage to ask for help?
Asking for help is a very courageous thing to do. Will you ask for help today?
Do you need a speaker for an upcoming event? I’d love to be that guy. You can reach me at dave@cultivatecourage.com or 952-200-7499.
