I introduced myself the other day as a swimmer. As soon as the word slid from my lips, my heart grew heavy. And with the grief came the raw feelings and memories attached to the last 10 years of my life, much of which was spent at St. Paul's Highland Pool.

I could pick up the smell of chlorine all the way from the parking lot on the hill. The water released tendrils of vapor that told us its depths were warmer than the crisp 50-degree air of an early summer's dawn. Small ripples pushed at the edge of the gutter as an inveterate mallard pair paddled with impunity in the center of the pool, apparently thinking they'd chosen one of our 10,000 lakes as their summer home. We wondered if they liked the chemically-doctored water as much as we did.

The sun would rise above us well after my teammates and I were wet and breathing hard from the miles we had swum. Fuzzy through the scratched plastic of our goggles, the pool tiles passed beneath us. Flipping at the wall, we would pass them thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of times. Our hands and arms pulled at the water; our strength fought against liquid. Our bodies burned with want of oxygen, and our breath grew short. After two and a half hours of unflagging intensity before most of the world was awake, we would climb out exhausted, sweat mixing with the water pooled at our feet. And we would be back for practice later that day, with the sun sinking on the other side of our eight-lane, 50-meter sea.

We showed up day after day. Five a.m. would see our cold toes curled over the familiar edge of the pool, our bodies taut and bare but for a slippery, stretched swath of fabric that left little room for modesty. We lived to swim. The pool was our flask; the water, our elixir. Sometimes I think we were propelled incessantly to the pool by the love of the sport, the rush of competition, the joy and challenge of forcing our bodies and minds to the edge of our abilities and craving more. But we were also lured by the call of the water, the stillness of blue-green glass, the wonder of seeing shadows move across the tile-covered bottom as the sun topped the trees.

My first few years as a competitive swimmer found me at the pool morning and night six days a week during the summer. My feet grew tough from the burning deck, my skin bronzed from the reflecting sunlight. As soon as I turned 15, my five or six hours at the pool every day grew to 16. I became certified as a lifeguard, and between morning and evening practices I was in the water teaching children to swim and watching over others. I knew every inch of the pool, every idiosyncrasy: the slight clockwise-flowing current and how to use it to my advantage; the corners where the water bugs would congregate; the warmest water vents on the coldest mornings.

Many of my highest and lowest moments took place on the sun-baked decks of the Highland Pool. I remember the day when we pulled a man from the water, his heart arrested. Working as fast as we could, we gave him a new chance at life. I remember the first day I was promoted to Lane 1, the fastest in the pool. Starting as "caboose" behind the college men who resented an imposing 16-year-old girl, I proved myself again and again, and soon led the pack.

But I also remember the pain. As I got older, I would often find myself sitting on the edge of the pool, tears trickling down my cheeks. My body was unable to do what my heart and mind asked of it, my shoulders were overused and damaged. Last summer, I was still up with the sun and watching the tiles pass beneath me, but after having surgery on both shoulders I had to relearn all that I had taken for granted, all that had become automatic. Each pull, each breath was a struggle. Swimming was no longer what I knew and loved.

It has been months since I have been in a pool. Surgery could not correct the damage to my shoulders. Making the torturous decision to hang up my towel was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. My passion was alive, but it was burning for something that could not be resurrected.

So when I introduce myself as a swimmer, it's just a reflex. For one unthinking moment, I'm back home, my feet cold on the deck in a pre-dawn mist, clear water stretching ahead. mm

Maya Hamilton is a Yale University sophomore who grew up in the Twin Cities.