Leading up to the 2012 Paralympic Games, my family and friends searched the Internet for videos of a Spanish swimmer named Enhamed Enhamed, who had ruled the pool against all other blind swimmers at the 2008 Paralympics in Beijing. He had won all three freestyle events while also setting a world record in the 100m butterfly, for a total of four gold medals.
Even though I had never met Enhamed (let alone raced against him), my family and friends made him out to be some sort of fierce rival. They also spoke of a Chinese swimmer named Yang Bozun, who had clearly improved in the four years since squaring off against Enhamed in Beijing. Surely, both athletes would serve as stiff competition in my quest for a gold medal.
Once we got to London, Brian would be on the lookout for Yang and Enhamed to evaluate how well each was swimming. While both were in great physical shape, along with being taller than me, it seemed that Enhamed had a slight advantage.
We arrived in the Olympic village in London, where both Olympians and Paralympians would live—a few days before the torch was lit. The time we spent in the village flew by, and before I knew it, I was walking to the blocks for my first race, the 100m freestyle.
Admittedly, the large crowd managed to get inside my head, and my adrenaline started pumping. In fact, I felt the same way as when I approached the IED that Alaska found at the entrance of Building Thirty-Eight.
Just as when I was in Afghanistan, however, a sense of calm washed over me just prior to the race. I tore up and back in 57.18 seconds, which set a new Paralympic record. I went into the finals seeded first, having made the statement we had set out to make. I was ready to race, and I was ready to race fast.
In the finals that night, I dove off and rapidly fell behind the lead pack, including both Enhamed and Bonsun. I made up a little ground on the turn, and then—only about ten meters off the wall on the return leg—I caught the pack. About halfway back, Bonsun and I started to edge out ahead of the field.
With only fifteen meters to go, Bonsun and I had a healthy lead, but it was too close to call between the two of us. With about five meters left, Bonsun grazed the lane line, which caused him to lose precious speed. I surged forward, and slapped the timing pad for my first gold medal!
It was an immense relief, and an altogether great feeling to come out of the gates so strong. While we had a long week of racing ahead, culminating with the 400m freestyle on the anniversary of my injury, the first win gave me a healthy amount of optimism. No matter what transpired the rest of the way, I would be going home having accomplished something that was unthinkable as I hallucinated in a hospital bed a few short months earlier.
The 100m breaststroke came and went, and my performance was unremarkable. I have never felt comfortable swimming that stroke, and despite over a decade’s worth of effort, I still just haven’t figured it out.
Preliminary rounds for the 50m freestyle were much more exciting. I dropped a little bit of time in the morning heat, and had earned the second seed going into finals, coming in just a fraction of a second behind Yang. Knowing that a potential crash at full speed might dramatically alter the outcome of the race, Brian and I had our sights set on another gold medal.
In the finals, I tore down the middle of the lane better than ever before and touched the wall in 25.9 seconds, which was my fastest time by almost half a second, and only a few hundredths off the world record. That is, the previous world record, as Yang had touched the wall ahead of me in 25.27 seconds, blowing the previous world record of 25.88 out of the water.
Later in the waiting room prior to our medal presentation, I chatted with Yang and Enhamed. While my family and I had tried to make them out to be fierce villainous rivals, it turned out that they were both really nice guys. Despite the language barrier, the three of us managed to express a mutual respect for one another, and at the same time, commiserated over the struggles of being blind in such a visual world.
It immediately struck me how just a few moments earlier, all three of us had been competitors in a great arena. Now, we were all just blind guys trying to make our way through our adapted lives. Through those key moments and our friendly exchange, I came to understand the power and magic of the Paralympic movement.
JUST BEFORE THE PARALYMPICS, a sports reporter had asked me a pointed question.
“Lieutenant Snyder, are you nervous to compete in the Paralympics for the first time?” she said.
“No,” I arrogantly replied without thinking my answer through. “I spent half of last year conducting assault operations and defusing bombs in Afghanistan. How hard could the Paralympics be?”
The fallacy of this statement was clear to me in the tense moments immediately prior to competing in the finals heat of the S11 400m freestyle at the Games in London. A gold medal in men’s swimming was on the line.
At major international competitions such as this one, athletes are required to show up and check-in well in advance of their scheduled race in order to be inspected and officially ushered to their assigned lanes. The ensuing wait offers ample opportunity for athletes to reaffirm their preparations and establish a mindset for victory, or allows doubts and distractions to devastate their psyches.
After an International Paralympic Committee (IPC) official thoroughly inspected my swim cap, goggles, and racing suit to ensure my gear was in accordance with the plethora of peculiar international rules, he ushered me to a row of eight chairs. There are multiple sets of chairs, each for a scheduled heat for the evening’s finals session. Athletes were to wait in this area like actors waiting before a pivotal scene, while a swarm of volunteers buzzed around the room frenetically ensuring the event went off without a hitch.
The official tapped on the fourth chair from the right, which would be my seat. My time from the preliminary heats had been a 4:33.70, earning me the top seed for the S11 finals heat.
The air in the room was chilly, and there was little sound other than the shuffling of other athletes getting inspected and finding their way to their assigned chairs. Though I couldn’t see him, I knew that Brian was patiently waiting somewhere against the wall across from me. I was the first from my classification to sit down, so as I stretched, I could feel the other competitors, including Enhamed and Yang, fill in around me.
All of us were focused on the race, so there would be no chatting with my rivals. Then, the air conditioning vent above me clicked on, which gave me goose bumps, similar to the moment when I found out that this race would be held on such a significant date.
I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my head. I put in earbuds, and began blasting rock music in an attempt to drown out my nerves. I needed to visualize my race.
Those cocky remarks I made to the reporter had been echoing through my head over the past few days. I was ashamed by how I underestimated the gravity of this experience. I had been in awe walking around in the Olympic village and listening to athletes from all over the world chat excitedly about competing in their respective sports. I had been amazed by the immensity of the cafeteria and all of the living accommodations for the athletes.
Most of all, I had been overwhelmed by the response of a sold-out crowd of over eighteen thousand international spectators in an arena surrounding a pool. Each and every fan seemed genuinely excited to watch my sport: swimming.
As I tried to focus on the biggest race of my life, I thought about some of my previous swimming experiences. From the summer swim league when I was a kid to the NCAA Division I Eastern Intercollegiate Swimming League Championships when I was at Navy, I don’t think I had ever swum in front of more than a few hundred people, most of whom were family and friends.
In London, though, the stands were packed with general spectators and fans of the Paralympic movement, all of whom were there to support the best disabled athletes in the world. They rooted on hometown heroes and international athletes alike.
When I walked out for my first race in London a few days earlier, I had heard a sell-out crowd of people from all over the world cheering for me. For me! I didn’t know more than a dozen or so people in the stands, but the sound of the cheers was nearly deafening and entirely humbling. This instilled in me an acute awareness of nerves not unlike the ones I had experienced on the battlefields of Afghanistan. It made me really nervous.
Leading up to my first race, my hands had shook, my heart rate was out of control, and it felt like the butterflies in my stomach were engaged in intense combat. I remember removing my earbuds and needing to do a few deep breathing exercises to gain control of my heart rate. After calming down, I had been surprisingly able to set that Paralympic record.
The 400m race would be different, though. It was September 7, 2012, which was just another date on the calendar for many, but not for me. The seventh of September is my “Alive Day.”
Many wounded veterans refer to the day they suffered their combat wounds as their Alive Day because we realize how close we came to dying. For most of us, that day marks being given a tremendous gift, much like our birthdays. While we come back from Afghanistan or Iraq with less than we left with, the important part is that we came back. September 7, 2012, was my very first Alive Day.
Just one year prior, I had been clearing my way across one of the most dangerous places on earth, rife with buried explosive devices and Taliban fighters. Somehow, I had lived through an explosion, but had forever lost the use of my eyes.
Now I was in London at the Paralympic Games. I was wearing a new uniform, having traded in my US Navy fatigues for Team USA warm-ups. In a few moments, I would compete for my country on international soil in front of a screaming crowd. Having earned the top seed, I didn’t want to let anyone down.
On the outside, that may seem like a great potential sports story, but as I tapped my foot nervously in the “ready room” just before the race, that story was terrifying. It was terrifying because it hadn’t come true. Before I had returned to the pool that evening, I had received hundreds of Facebook messages, posts, and tweets from friends, family, and strangers from all over the world. All of those people would presumably be watching and hoping to see something special.
While I was in the ready room, I thought of all those people about to watch the race, whether at home with their families or in small huts while deployed to Afghanistan. In that moment, I felt the collective expectations of all those people weighing heavily on my shoulders.
What would happen if I screwed this up? What if I false started? What if I was disqualified? What if I dove in and just didn’t have anything left? What if I crashed?
I caught that negative spiral before it could do any real damage. I realized that it did me no good to “what if?” myself. Doubt is a tricky demon, and it can wiggle its way into your head wherever it can find a crack. You can protect yourself with preparation and positivity, and if you believe in yourself with enough conviction, you can shut out those doubts. I decided in that moment—in the ready room—that if I focused on the outcome that I wanted hard enough, then I could make it come true. I was prepared, I was strong, I was ready, and I was determined to make this incredible story a reality.
I suddenly felt a rising tide of adrenaline. Over and over in my head, I saw myself diving off the blocks and flawlessly executing lap after lap with smooth, effortless speed.
As each heat was announced, started, and completed, I would advance into a new set of chairs. There are probably six or so sets of chairs, so every few minutes, Brian would tap my shoulder and escort me to a new chair, bringing me closer and closer to the pool deck and all eighteen thousand fans. Their expectations, which were collectively voiced in a cacophony of sound waves that crashed against my consciousness, caused me to clench my jaw, steel my resolve, and step confidently forward.
In the last set of chairs, I set my goggles over my prosthetic eyes while checking that my swim cap was tight on my head. Once again, I pulled my hood over my head and hid my stoic face in the shadows.
A different IPC official said that we were the next heat to be announced, and that we should line up at the doorway to the pool deck. A loud and booming voice echoed through the arena, just slightly louder than the crowd’s cheers, announcing, “Please welcome your competitors for the 400m freestyle S11 classification!”
I felt Brian fill in to my right, and I grabbed a hold of his left arm. I could no longer perceive the space around me when we stepped onto the pool deck, as the noise had fully washed out my perception of the world. With eyes that didn’t work and ears that were drowned in crowd noise, my only connection to the world was Brian’s left arm.
He walked me to a chair with a small basket next to it, and I knew it was time to undress and prepare for the race. Item by item, I pulled off my jacket, my hoodie, and so on until I stood exposed in front of the cheering crowd, clad only in a skin-tight racing suit, my cap, and my goggles. For just a moment, I lost myself amongst the noise. I almost forgot where I was and what I was doing. The world around me seemed so dark and immense that I could barely comprehend it.
Thankfully, Brian took my hand and placed it on the starting block, which snapped me back to the present. The shape and feel of the starting block was so familiar that I didn’t have to see it to know what it looked like. I traced out the platform of the block and reached to the front lip. I left my hand there and stretched my mental gaze to the pool in front of me. I didn’t need to see the water, the lane lines, the long black line, or the opposing wall to know that they were there. I relied on my memories to conjure a vivid mental image of the pool in front of me.
Nothing else mattered. I was now the one in control of my destiny. I was the only one capable of conquering my own doubts, and proving that while my vision might have been taken away, my spirit couldn’t be conquered.
Three blasts of a whistle came from my left as the referee issued the command for silence. In an instant, the screaming fans were quieted, and their cheers were replaced with a silence that seemed to be louder than the cheers from a moment before. Another whistle from the referee beckoned us to step up on the block. I carefully did so and set my feet, with my right toes curled over the front lip and my back foot angled slightly on the fin on the back of the block.
“Take your mark . . .” the referee’s voice commanded over a crackled intercom. I bent over, coiled the muscles in my legs and lower back, and gripped the front lip of the block on either side of my right foot.
A buzzer sounded and I unleashed, leaping into the air and arching my back in an attempt to gain as much altitude as possible before gravity inevitably splashed me into the water.
Underwater, I stretched into a long and streamlined position, and undulated my body for four powerful, simultaneous kicks with both legs. I broke out and began setting each hand above my head before pulling through with as much strength and efficiency as I could. At this point, I needed to remind myself not to let my excitement get the best of me. At the beginning of a big race like this one, it’s very easy to pop up, spin your wheels, and start burning up valuable energy early in the race.
Brian and I had practiced a certain strategy, and my plan was to keep as much in the tank as possible during the first half of the race. I needed to make every effort to stay long with my stroke, keep control of my breathing, and keep my heart rate as low as possible. This would hopefully keep my pace even, and give me something to work with during the last hundred meters.
I breathed deep on every stroke and cruised through the first length, just grazing the right-hand lane line. Close call, I thought, but I recovered.
Based on an initial study of my competitors, I figured that I should be able to put some distance in between me and the other swimmers, as long as I avoided crashing, of course. To accomplish this, I kept my hands very low on my arm recovery, dragging my fingers across the surface of the water, which helped me feel for the lane line with every stroke. If I found the lane line with either hand, ideally I would be able to correct course in time to prevent bringing my race to a catastrophic halt. While moving at full speed, especially with fatigue setting in, keeping my hands low in this manner often proved very difficult. I would crash frequently in practice.
About a meter from the wall, I received the warning tap on my back from another coach named Andrew. Upon feeling the tap, I kicked my feet over my head in a somersault, planted my feet on the wall, and launched off in the opposite direction. When I made it back to the start side, Brian was there to give me another tap.
Though I could feel my heart rate going up slightly, I felt good all the way through the first half of the race. When I turned at the two hundred meter mark, I made a deliberate effort to begin kicking just a little bit more. I continued to cruise with my arms, but my kick came in powerful bursts: “boom, boom, boom, boom!”
I would quickly rest before another round of “boom, boom, boom, booms!” I worked my way through the fifth length, I felt my arms begin to burn as lactic acid accumulated and fatigue began to set in. I compensated by moving my arms faster and faster, sticking with the bursts of kick.
With two lengths left, I began kicking harder and harder and moving my arms faster and faster, knowing that I was on my last lap and I didn’t need to save anything for anybody.
The end of the race went by in a burning flash, and at last, I slammed my left hand into the wall. I picked my head up out of the water to cheers of a magnitude I had never heard before.
Once again, I was lost in the dark. There was no light or sound beyond the static noise of the voluminous crowd. I had no idea what was happening or who had won the gold medal.
I felt like pumping my fist, because I thought that I had executed a great race. But weakened by my recent exertion, doubt found a way to wiggle back into my head. A fist pump would surely look foolish if I had lost. What if my efforts hadn’t been enough? What if someone in an outside lane just had the race of their life, and that’s who the crowd was cheering for?
Without being able to see the scoreboard or hear anyone talking above the continuing crowd noise, I sat alone in the pool in front of eighteen thousand people. I was figuratively drowning amid ever-expanding darkness and shadows of doubt. Much like the day in Afghanistan when I saw the mushroom cloud from an IED explosion near members of my patrol, those thirty seconds felt like thirty minutes.
Then, the last competitor finished, which prompted the referee to blow his whistle three times, indicating that the race was over. At that point, Brian leaned over and shouted at the top of his lungs, in a distinct voice that I knew so well. He screamed two words that I’ll remember forever.
“YOU WON!!!”
The story had come true. One year to the day after losing my eyesight in Afghanistan, I had somehow won the gold medal at the Paralympic Games in London. In that moment, the darkness of being blind was no match for the bright lights of jubilation that suddenly filled my consciousness.
It was the most rewarding moment of my life. September 7, 2012, was my Alive Day, and indeed, I had never felt more alive.