The Quiet Ones

As an Australian, it almost feels like swimming is part of our DNA. We’re a coastal people—literally. Around 87% of us live within 50 kilometres of the coastline. All of our major cities hug the shore. That’s over 22 million people who call the coast home, and when we talk about the “classic Aussie holiday,” we’re talking about two weeks at the beach.

So water is not just scenery—it’s part of the rhythm of our lives. We’re raised to respect it, to marvel at its beauty and its danger. We learn to swim young, because water safety isn’t optional here—it’s essential.

That deep, national awareness of the water runs in the background whenever I watch swimming at the Olympics. Even though I’m not a great swimmer myself, I feel a real pull to the sport. There’s something awe-inspiring about those athletes, cutting through water with strength, focus, and grace. I admire their discipline—their capacity to get up before dawn, day after day, and train relentlessly.

I once knew someone like that. She was a high schooler—an elite swimmer all throughout her childhood years. I’ve lost touch with her now, but I remember the sheer dedication it took. She trained six days a week, often waking up at an hour most of us would rather not know existed. Her parents were part of the journey too, driving her to and from the pool, spending weekends at swimming carnivals and surf lifesaving competitions. She dreamed of wearing the green and gold on the Olympic stage. She never quite made it—but it wasn’t for lack of heart or effort. That dream shaped her. It gave her grit and clarity that carried over into life beyond the pool.

So when I watch the Olympics, I don’t just see swimmers chasing medals. I see a lifetime of early mornings. I see the sacrifices made not only by athletes, but by whole families. I see that razor-thin line between great and extraordinary. I see character being forged—endurance, resilience, humility. These things don’t go away when the pool is drained or the cheering stops.

That’s why I love Olympic swimming. It’s not just a race. It’s a story of quiet, persistent pursuit—of greatness, yes, but more importantly, of the kind of person you become along the way.

And so a reflection:

The Quiet Ones

Most of us live near the sea,
where water is part of the day—
a place to play,
a place to fear,
a place to learn

We learn young,
taught to read the water,
to respect its pull.

I remember a friend—
a swimmer.
Early mornings,
six days a week.
Lap after lap.
She dreamed of the Olympics.
She didn’t get there.
Most don’t.

But what stayed with her
wasn’t the dream,
it was the discipline—
the showing up,
the pushing through.

When I watch the Games,
I see more than medals.
I see years of quiet effort,
families that give,
young people who grow.

Because what lasts
isn’t the race—
it’s the person
who comes out of the water.