find the illustrated version here

Haven’t We All Wanted To Sink In A Sequined Outfit?

words by Madison Godfrey

Elite synchronised swimmers aren’t allowed to touch the pool floor, just as I am not allowed
to touch the future. Perhaps what is most interesting about the sport is the unseen limbs, how
legs appear as if bodies without faces attached. There are days I wake up and wish to be all
thighs and 180-degree ankles, less of this ribcage / chin / facial expression / time-your-eye-
contact ordeal. I’d probably still worry that I pointed my toe at someone for too long. My
favourite part of the videos is when scores are announced, and swimmers begin to cry. Like
the aquatic version of overpacking a suitcase. Tears streaming down their faces as if their
bodies have reached full capacity of liquid. I imagine a swimmer kissing someone on a
dance floor, months from this moment, and the recipient licking their lips with confusion at
the chlorine. How devotion seasons spit. On days when I wear stage makeup underwater, I
wonder if I am almost drowning, but in a beautiful pose. Whenever I am briefly able to catch
a breath, I find myself smiling towards scoring judges instead. An underwater camera
monitors competitive precision, but this secret footage isn’t included online. I wonder if the
swimmers smile under there. Perhaps an orthodontist has piped perfect silicone to waterproof
the gaps between their teeth. I watch an athlete faint at the end of her routine. Her coach says
we push to our limits and sometimes we find them. Of course, the internet is obsessed with a
scoreable beauty made fallible. A porous flotation device. A woman completes an impeccable
routine before basic needs interrupt.