Section B

The Last Dive at the Olympics

I climbed the ladder, heard my dive announced, and commenced the moves that would thrust me into the air. Pushing off the diving board with my legs, I lifted my arms and shoulders back, and knew immediately I would be close to the board and might hit my hands. I tried to correct myself as I turned, spreading my hands wide apart. Then I heard a strange sound and my body lost control. Moments later I realized I had hit my head on the board.

Initially, I felt embarrassment. I wanted to hide, to get out of the pool without anyone seeing me. Next I felt intense fear. Had I cut my head? Was I bleeding? Was there blood in the pool? Swimming to the side, I noticed many shocked faces. People were worried about my head; I was worried about something far more threatening. An official examined my head. In haste, I pushed him away, and everyone else who approached me. "Don't touch me!" I felt like screaming. "Get away from me!"

These were the trials for the 1988 Olympics in Seoul, Korea. Until this dive, I had been ahead. But now, something else was more significant than winning. I might have endangered other divers' lives if I had spilled blood in the pool. For what I knew — that few others knew — was that I was HIV-positive.

According to my mother, my natural parents were Samoan and only teenagers when I was born, so they gave me up for adoption. When I was only eighteen months old, I started gym classes. At ten, I explored doing gym exercises off the diving board at the pool.

Because of my dark skin, kids at school called me names; I often got mugged coming home from school. My diving made me feel good about myself when my peers made me feel stupid. In the seventh grade, I started taking drugs.

At sixteen, I knew I had a shot at the 1976 Olympics. At the trials, one month prior to the finals, I took first place on the ten-meter platform and on the springboard! This was surprising because I had trained mostly on the platform. In the finals, I won the silver medal for the platform. Unfortunately, I wasn't happy. Instead, I felt I failed because I hadn't won the gold. After that, I started training with Ron O'Brien, a well-known Olympic diving coach. Ron understood me and assisted my working more intensely. I soon became the international leader in diving. In the 1984 Olympics, I won two gold medals, one for platform, one for springboard. This was an enjoyable triumph.

No one knew then I was gay, except Ron and a few friends. I feared being hated if people found out. Four years later, while preparing for the 1988 Olympics in Seoul, I learned my partner had AIDS. I had to accept I might be HIV-positive or have AIDS, too. When my HIV test results returned positive, I was shocked and confused. Was I dying? Was my shot at the '88 Olympics vaporized? What should I do? During this very difficult time, I couldn't tell anyone for fear I wouldn't be able to compete in the Olympics if people learned I was HIV-positive.

Everyone was alarmed when I hit my head on the board at the trials in Seoul. Regardless, I made it into the finals. When we practiced the next morning, my coach made me start with the dive I'd hit my head on. At first, I was scared, but Ron made me do it six times. With each repetition, I felt more confident.

During my last dive in the finals, I enjoyed for the last time the quietness underwater and then swam to the side of the pool. Afraid to look at the score-board, I watched Ron's face. Suddenly he leaped into the air, the crowd cheered, and I knew I'd won — two gold medals, one for the three-meter springboard, one for the ten-meter platform. None knew how hard it had been, except Ron and the friends I'd told I was HIV-positive.

AIDS forced me to stop diving; I had to quit diving professionally after the Olympics.