It’s been some time since the movie Forrest Gump was a hit in theaters around the world, but what does that have to do with my experience swimming in open water? Or with my first “long” training session? Or with my first race? From the hundreds of thoughts that bubble up in my mind during my swims, I’ve come to feel that my journey into open water swimming can be summed up in the same way Forrest described life: like a box of chocolates — you never know what each different chocolate is going to bring.
My father swam his entire life. In the U.S., he competed at the high school and collegiate levels, earning “All American” honors. He worked as a lifeguard and set university records that stood for many years. But it wasn’t through my father that I arrived here. I never swam on a team or competitively. I HATED doing laps in the pool...
I would say that, for me, it all started with surfing — that’s where my relationship with the ocean was born. It would take nearly 40 years for the circle to complete itself, where open water swimming, here in Portugal, would bring me back to the sea, back to my father, and to many things beyond surfing!
rowing up surfing in Brazil, I developed a deep love for the ocean. I’ve always felt and believed that the sea cleanses our souls — it’s impossible to go into the ocean and come out the same person. And just as you never step into the same river twice, the sea is always changing, and always changing us.
Fast-forward. Thirty years after finishing university and having stopped surfing regularly, I arrived in Lisbon with all my belongings (as we say in Brazil, “de mala e cuia”), with my eyes on the sea — eager to feel at home again among the waves, the tides, and the currents. I had already been following Facebook groups for surfers over 50; over 60; over 70 — even over 80 — so I wouldn’t lose faith or hope of returning to the sport, and that I might continue it well into old age! But I’m no fool... I have enormous respect for the sea and know the dangers that exist there — and I also know I have to understand my limitations. Starting to swim would be a “functional” way to get back into shape and reacquaint myself with the sea. And so, with this determination, I sought out our “coach,” Bibiana. My journey into open water swimming was born alongside Swim for Fun!
“Bibiana, I want to get back into surfing, but I need to get back into shape and I can’t just start doing crossings on my own.” Bibiana replied, “Come to Praia da Torre. We’ll see what level you’re at and go from there. We have groups for all levels. Don’t worry!” Those who know her can probably hear her voice as she says it...
And so, on May 12th, 2024, I showed up at Praia da Torre with my surf wetsuit, no swim buoy, and no idea what kind of adventure was about to begin. I could barely swim 50 meters without feeling like I was dying — out of breath, out of strength, and completely clueless!
Over the course of a year, the training sessions with Swim for Fun became more solid, and as I gained strength and consistency, Bibiana’s guidance extended to my sessions in Denver, USA, where I spend two weeks every month. Unfortunately, in Denver my training is always in a pool that can’t compare to the Jamor pool — and is nothing like the ocean — but it allowed me to stay consistent and not lose the gains I’d made in Portugal.
Fast forward again to May 10th, 2025. One year after my first session with Bibiana, I began my first “Long Training,” doing the crossing from Praia de São Pedro to Praia da Duquesa — a total of 4 km. Once again, I had no idea what to expect from the experience or even if I’d be able to complete the 4 km. That was when, during my first crossing, Forrest Gump’s chocolate box came to mind. Was I delirious? Maybe...
The day began beautifully and the crossing promised ideal conditions — which quickly changed. The current, and especially the wind coming from the front, bringing more waves to the face, soon made it clear that the challenge would be greater than anticipated. As I rounded the São Pedro peninsula, I could feel the impact of those forces almost immediately. In my mind, I thought I was “falling behind” and needed to push harder. At the same time, not knowing how much the 4 km would demand from me, I wanted to conserve energy and not tire too quickly. Between strokes, as I turned my head to breathe, I looked at the coastline, noted the buildings and features along the shore, and noticed that my progress seemed to speed up and slow down, even though my stroke rate felt constant. Nearing the 2 km mark, I paused to see where the rest of the group was and realized I was among the middle — some ahead, some behind. I reoriented myself to swim more directly toward the destination instead of following the coastline. I decided to put my head down and move forward, like a slow-gear tractor. I monitored how I felt — if I got too tired, the coast was nearby and, as Bibiana had said, I could exit the water at any point. I aimed to find a pace that showed progress without draining me — and that’s when I found my “special little place.” This place was the first discovery I made — when I began to feel better in the water, after a few months of training. A rhythmic place, between strokes and breaths, feeling all parts working together — and then, the swim became a meditative space. So different from the hard early months of adaptation and conditioning. Once I found that zone, that rhythm, I discovered I could lose myself in it. The first chocolate. The first discovery.
So, under somewhat challenging conditions in that first long swim, when I found that meditative place, I opened myself up to new thoughts — new discoveries. One of them was a feeling of closeness to my father, as I imagined him training when he was young and what his experience might have been like. Did he enjoy it the way I was now? On one hand, I felt connected to something that had always been a big part of his life — and thus, I felt connected to him. On the other hand, I wondered how he would feel, or react, if he experienced open water swimming after a lifetime in pools. These reflections were among the first to come to me in that meditative state — many more followed. Like the arms of a clock, I shifted my attention rhythmically between different elements — the seconds, the minutes, the hours; my strokes, my breathing, my orientation, and yes, my meditation. One minute I’d realize I wasn’t making much progress — so I’d push harder. Another minute I’d realize I needed to reorient myself. Another moment I’d think about my mother, who, at 84, still teaches yoga and once told me that many prayers contain verses that lend themselves to rhythmic breathing and therefore meditation. In the next moment, I was reciting a “Hail Mary.” Then, an “Our Father.” Rhythm. Breath. The verses truly aligned. The strokes came and went, and so did the random thoughts. Minute by minute, bit by bit, the goal grew nearer. I did a self-check: How am I feeling? Still have breath, not too tired, but energy is a bit low. Maybe my glycogen is running out? I stopped. Didn’t see anyone ahead, nor behind — but I could still spot the kayaks farther back, closer to shore. I looked ahead again and could now see Praia da Duquesa. I thought, “I’m going to make it!” Shifted into low gear again, and off I went. Minute by minute, meter by meter, the beach grew closer. Relief. The goal was within reach. Almost as soon as I realized it, the wind died down, and strokes, breathing, and calm came more easily. As I emerged from the water at Praia da Duquesa, I could savor another chocolate. This one brought the realization of something I couldn’t have imagined a year ago — a limitation overcome. A victory achieved. Still dripping wet, I was already wondering how this experience would compare to the next challenge: my first open water race. One week later, I’d savor the next chocolate — and it would be VERY different.
At the Oeiras Open Water Race, once again I found myself facing an experience I didn’t know what to expect from. I had no expectations of podiums or medals. Just a few months before, I wasn’t even sure I could swim 1,500 meters. My original goal for the race was just to finish — but now I already knew I could. I had just done 4,000 meters. But the circumstances were VERY different — and so the experience would be, too.
My biggest anxiety was how I’d deal with the course among hundreds of other swimmers. I arrived a bit (a lot) lost. Quiet, in my own head, I went to find my spot for the start. I had never even watched a race like this before — let alone participated in one! I followed others and lined up where it seemed to make sense, based on Bibiana’s guidance — I’d start on the far right, so I could round the first buoy from the outside and avoid the chaos near the buoys. There came a strange feeling of solitude in the midst of a huge crowd. There was no turning back — once in line, I felt like cattle in a chute, waiting for a vaccine. When the start horn blared — followed by waves of other horns — there was only one direction to go: forward. My turn came, and uncertainly, I went.
“Oh my God! What is this?” I was already asking myself before reaching the first buoy. Arms and legs everywhere! I panicked when I touched someone’s foot — and again when others’ hands, feet, arms, and bodies bumped into me. Here, trying to orient myself toward the buoys while avoiding collisions, I was far from the peace, rhythm, or meditation I’d found in my 4 km training swim the week before. This was chaos! Apparently, that’s normal!
“Calm down!” “Breathe!” “Don’t panic!” “You know you can swim 1,500m — you’re not here to win but to challenge yourself.” “Go at your pace. You’ll get there.” “Where’s the buoy?! I can’t see anything!” “Oh right... Bibiana said to go with the flow... Well, I hope they know where they’re going!” I almost laughed imagining the whole crowd swimming the wrong way. Soon, it was clear the current wasn’t helping as much as expected. Where was the “conveyor belt” Bibiana mentioned? The effort was greater than expected. “Calm down.” “Slow and steady...” Each buoy brought a bottleneck. I thought, “I’ll go around.” Relief as I finally turned and began swimming toward the final buoy. A little more... I made it. I survived!
Almost immediately, the slight terror of my first race experience began to fade, and I started trying to reflect, digest, and absorb that absolutely unique experience. Right away, I wondered if I even wanted to repeat something like that... I wasn’t sure I liked that particular chocolate... It was a bit like those liqueur-filled chocolates I hated as a kid. Why subject myself to that? The answer came quickly — because I love challenges, and I know I can improve. Because if there’s not at least a little fear, the experience can’t be as deep. Because I know there are still many chocolates I haven’t tasted, experiences I haven’t lived, and barriers I haven’t yet broken. Next year, I’ll turn 57. Where will I be at 60, if one year has already brought so many great experiences and unexpected accomplishments? I’m already looking toward the horizon, full of gratitude, thinking of the new “firsts” and surprises that await me.
Chris Lund