THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, August 7, 1996 TAG: 9608060152
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 18 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Sports
SOURCE: BY JOHN-HENRY DOUCETTE, CORRESPONDENT
DATELINE: CHESAPEAKE LENGTH: 82 lines
Dressed in khaki shorts and a T-shirt, Great Bridge swimmer Christopher W. Culbert, 17, stands at the side of the pool. He eats an Italian ice and cheers for his teammates racing in the Virginia Beach Swim League's all star competition.
One of them is his 13-year-old brother, Justin E. Culbert. The brothers have been swimming on the same team together for seven years. They are close.
Justin is racing today. Christopher is not.
Christopher's face is a purple-and-yellow mess, a master example of being bruised and swollen. Doctors have sewn shut a gash between his eyebrows. It took four stitches on the outside and two more deep inside the wound. He had been in the hospital overnight.
A violent car accident Aug. 1, two days before the competition, had done this to Culbert's body. It happened near the new stop light at Interstate 64 and Greenbrier Parkway. Four cars had piled up during afternoon rush hour traffic. Culbert's metallic blue 1991 Toyota pickup was battered so badly that wreckers who cleared the scene asked if the driver lived.
Culbert hadn't been wearing his seat belt. His head struck the windshield, and he lost consciousness. He remembers waking up. It was a good feeling. He knew the ambulances had arrived, and thought he would make it somehow.
It is two days later, and Christopher is out of the hospital.
Midday has arrived at the competition.
An announcer's feminine voice sounds. Occasional bursts of rain fall. Race after race, young swimmers plow their bodies through pool lanes marked by green and yellow floating dividers.
The announcer calls out Justin's next race, the 50-meter butterfly.
Christopher Culbert walks to the pool. He puts his Italian ice at the feet of the announcer, who sits in a tall chair overlooking the pool. Chris walks to Justin, who is clad in a swim suit and cap.
Chris hugs his brother from behind.
``Good luck,'' says Chris.
``Thanks.''
Justin is called to the starting block. A buzzer sounds, and Justin dives. He comes up and spreads his arms. The butterfly is a demanding swim, even on a quick sprint. And the 50 fly is a quick race. A lap down the pool. A turn. A lap back.
``C'mon Justin,'' says Chris.
Justin hits the far wall of the pool and turns. Every stroke of the butterfly looks like a drowning man coming up for air, or a winged fish leaping out of the water. The head pokes out, the body follows. The mouth gapes and sucks in air. The arms gather water. The arms pull water in as the body begins to submerge again.
Chris walks closer to the edge of the pool until he is right next to the judges and timekeepers. His eyes never leave his brother. Chris crouches down, closer to the water.
``Go!'' he shouts.
The field is tight. Justin lags a bit behind. The swimmers come toward the wall, toward the end of the race.
``Go!'' shouts Chris.
Justin breaks from his last stroke and stretches to the wall.
They stand together after the race.
Chris asks, ``What was your time?''
Justin tells him he doesn't know.
They find out. Justin swam a 32.66-second 50 fly. He's pleased with the race, though his time is average. It will earn him a fifth place finish in the event.
The announcer sounds above the din surrounding the pool. She asks for attention, and hundreds of swimmers, coaches and fans quiet as the call emanates from the public address system. The announcer asks each parent to give their children a hug.
It is an odd announcement to mix with the day's running commentary on parking lot news, hot dog sales and race times.
The announcer explains herself to the crowd.
``Tell them you love them because they can be taken away so quickly,'' she says.
Chris and Justin's mother, Janyce A. Culbert, is the announcer. She looks down from the chair. A little embarrassed, the brothers stand together a moment, then Chris walks over to the chair and speaks with his mother.
``You know,'' says Justin, still dripping from his race, ``you can see the indentation of his head on the windshield.''
Justin looks at his brother, who is looking at their mother.
When Chris Culbert walks away from the announcer's chair he is holding his Italian ice. by CNB