How to pass (barely) a university mandated swim test

Today's modern universities face a unique challenge in preparing students for success in an ever-changing, globally-connected society. At least, that's what the brochures say. Part of this challenge is, apparently, ensuring graduates are capable of swimming exactly 75 yards without drowning.

Now, if you're smart enough to get into college, you're probably smart enough to paddle across a pool, so I'm expecting this challenge was imposed by bored PE faculty as a tool for humiliating students. I was a little suspicious going into it, as mandatory tests of basic skills haven't been a historical strong point with me (that learner's permit exam was rigged, I swear). Still, nevertheless, I show up at Helen Newman Hall at three thirty sharp, my bathing suit on and my swimming skills ready. 

That's when I encountered a little problem.

See this? This is what we call a problem.

So, for every week leading up to this test, I told myself to bring goggles. I'm a little sensitive about water in my eyes, so it's very important I have these. I dug in my old sports bag and found a pair. I packed them. I sat them down on my desk. And when I pulled on my bathing suit and shoved my towel into my bag, I made sure to shove them in too.

Only somehow they stayed on my desk. 

So as I stand, toe deep in other peoples' dripped-off water, I have no choice but to throw my shirt in my bag and follow the other shivering students into the pool. A lady starts screaming at me for no other reason than I'm . . . there . . . and grabs my student ID in a rather forceful manner. I am told to line up. I am told to jump in feet first.

This involves my head going underwater. Even worse, this might mean I get water in my eyes. See, I wear contact lenses. I really don't want to loose those lenses, because I've paid for them and they're pretty expensive for tiny pieces of plastic. 

So when the loud woman says go, I pretty much steel myself, squeeze my eyes shut, and jump.

I'm underwater for about a split second, at which point I frantically kick myself up and strike out for the opposite side. The rules say I can take as much time as I want, and, boy, do I take advantage of that. I hold my head above the water and frog-kick my way across the pool as the girls with goggles stream past besides me.

When I finally grab the other side and flip onto my back, sighing with relief, I think the worst is over. Right at that moment, the girl in the lane next to me kicks a crapload of water right in my face. As I enter my backstroke, I realize I'm kicking water into my own face. I proceed to frog-kick on my back all the way down the lane.

By the third and final lap, in which we can use whatever stroke we want. I stop caring and turn corkscrews all the way down. The lifeguard stares at me like I'm a total idiot, and right then and there I'm thinking she might not be too far off the mark. As I reach the end, I pull myself from the pool, walk over to the sign-out table, and babble an explanation about me and my missing goggles. "I'm actually a good swimmer!" I explain, frantically.

"Oh, really?" The student test administrator smiles at me. "You want to sign up to lifeguard?"

I laugh. "Trust me. I'm not that good."