At 6:00 in the morning, Narragansett Beach is a completely different world.
No umbrellas.
No volleyball games.
No sunscreen.
No children asking, “Are we there yet?”
Just the Atlantic Ocean stretching toward the horizon, a few commercial fishing boats making their way to work, and a handful of swimmers quietly slipping into the water.
Now, I don’t know about you, but if you told me to voluntarily swim away from shore before sunrise, my first question would be, “Is someone chasing me?”
Apparently not.
These folks do it for fun.
Or fitness.
Or perhaps because someone misplaced a screw somewhere along the way.
I watched as they headed toward a large pink ball float sitting offshore near the Coast Guard House. Beside it floated a much smaller buoy with a tiny American flag fluttering in the morning breeze.
That little flag wasn’t there to inspire a patriotic speech.
It was a target.
Every few strokes, the swimmers lifted their heads just enough to sight the flag before disappearing beneath the surface again. Stroke. Breathe. Sight. Repeat. Over and over.
Meanwhile, I was performing my own athletic event.
It involved carrying a camera, an 800mm lens that weighs about as much as a small bowling ball, a tripod, and just enough coffee to convince myself I was contributing to society.
They were training their bodies.
I was training my shutter finger.
Let’s call it a draw.
Open-water swimming isn’t like swimming laps in a pool.
There are no lane lines.
No warm water.
No walls to push off every twenty-five yards.
The ocean doesn’t care how many medals you’ve won or how many excuses you’ve prepared.
If you want to reach that flag, you’re going to earn every single stroke.
And then something happened that completely changed the story.
The fastest swimmers reached the float first.
I expected them to slap it triumphantly, spin around, and head back to shore like they had just won Olympic gold.
Nope.
They stopped.
They treaded water.
They waited.
As the others arrived, they began cheering them on.
Think about that for a second.
The people who finished first didn’t celebrate themselves.
They encouraged everyone else.
That’s not just good sportsmanship.
That’s character.
It reminded me that the real competition isn’t with the person swimming beside you.
It’s with the person you were yesterday.
Whether you’re training for an open-water swim, learning to play the piano, building a business, writing a book, raising a family, or chasing wildlife with a camera before most people have hit the snooze button, improvement is almost never dramatic.
It’s usually quiet.
It happens before sunrise.
It happens when nobody is watching.
It happens because you decided to show up.
Watching those swimmers, I couldn’t help but think that this quiet determination—the willingness to work hard, improve a little each day, and then encourage others to do the same—is part of the spirit that has always inspired me.
No headlines.
No applause.
No trophies.
Just ordinary people choosing discipline over comfort.
And perhaps that’s the greatest lesson of all.
The strongest among us aren’t always the ones who finish first.
They’re often the ones waiting at the finish, cheering everyone else across.
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