It was a Monday morning during my first week at Scout camp. I was eleven years old and had just finished eating breakfast when I was told to report to the waterfront for my swim test.
I was annoyed. It was early, and the morning was chilly. My belly was filled with eggs and pancakes. The last thing I wanted to do was jump in the lake and swim 100 yards. I was fully capable of doing so, but I had no desire at that particular moment.
So, a lap or two into my swim test, I quit. “This is stupid,” I thought. “I’ll do this again when it’s warm and pancakes aren’t dragging me down.”
I did not understand the ramifications of this decision. Labeled as a “beginner” swimmer, I would be relegated to a small swimming area between the docks, and the only boat I could use was a rowboat.
Rowboats suck.
“Let me try again,” I asked when my “beginner” limitations were explained to me.
“Sure,” said the waterfront director. “Next test is Wednesday.”
I was so annoyed.
The next day, when it came time to travel across the lake to sleep under the stars, my friends cruised across the water in canoes.
I eventually made it across in a stupid rowboat.
I’m still annoyed about it today.
When Charlie was preparing to head off to his first week of Scout camp, I told him this story. “I don’t know if you can pass the swim test yet, but if you get tired, keep trying as long as possible. Don’t stop. Persist. You’ll be happy you did.”
He nodded. I wondered if he was thinking about what I had said or the myriad of other things that fill his brain.
When Charlie arrived home a week later, I asked him how the swim test went.
“Oh,” he said. “I passed on the first try.”
“Congratulations,” I said. I was so happy for him. “Was it hard?”
“Oh yeah,” Charlie said. “But as I was swimming, I kept reminding myself about what you said. Don’t give up. Persist. So I did.”
It’s a small thing, I know, but to me, this was enormous. Forty years ago, I made a mistake on a Monday morning at Scout camp and suffered for it. Then I told that story to my son more than four decades later, and when it came time to face the identical test, he heard my words in his head, and they kept him going.
That is truly the essence of parenting:
I’ve made mistakes. Learn from them. Let your mistakes be unique and not avoidable repetitions of my own life.
Charlie did just that.
I have rarely felt prouder as a father than in that moment. Knowing I was with him in spirit as he swam his 1o0 yards and that my voice helped to keep him going made my heart soar.
Silly, I know. It’s a small thing—tiny, really—but it’s the biggest of all things to me.
