This document is the text of a speech given at a high school graduation ceremony. It begins by welcoming the audience and graduates. It then shares a personal anecdote about the speaker's own graduation 34 years ago. The main part of the speech uses the metaphor of a white swim cap to represent being a novice and having the courage to take on new challenges and transitions, like graduating. It encourages the graduates to embrace change and draw on their character and experiences to guide them through this transition, just as novice swimmers persevere despite initial fears when wearing a white cap.

1. Closing Day
June 22, 2013
Members of the Board of Governors, Headmaster, faculty and staff,
parents, friends, Shawnigan Lake School students, graduates: It gives me
great pleasure to stand before you, in this beautiful place, on what has
already begun as a memorable day, to offer some reflections for this
milestone achievement which is the class of 2013.
34 years ago, in cap and gown, I sat with 159 of my own classmates, in
the gym of my high school in a small town in the state of Maine. We
were graduating. As my day unfolded, I felt, perhaps like many of you in
the grad class do today, that strange but remarkably clear confusion of
emotions and impressions that comes when endings and beginnings
conflate into a single experience—when looking at things for the last
time, you remember the first time and you begin to recognize just what
you will miss and what, perhaps, you may have missed.
Today is for many, and it certainly was for me at 18, a day of
contradictions, a seeming design error of circumstances that while
ultimately compelling us forward—you will graduate today—teases us
with remembrances fixed in the longing, if only temporarily, to return to
places and spaces in time, to the beginning. Grade 8 never looks as good
as it does on Closing Day.
It is my honour to be your speaker today for two reasons. First of all, I
have been given an opportunity to reflect with you on the gifts of

2. transitions and new beginnings; this time is on us all now with the end
of another school year and the promise of summer sitting just outside
those gates. And secondly it is an honour for me to address this
community for the last time as the school’s Deputy Head; this is, in
effect, my graduation from Shawnigan and I am grateful to be sharing
this moment with members of the class of 2013.
I have to tell you, given that we have already heard two wonderful
addresses from Liam and Mr. Holland, I am feeling a bit of performance
pressure. And the only real instructions I was provided for today were
from Ms Dolman who offered this encouragement: “For God’s sake keep
it short; David, as you know, will go on absolutely forever.” I must also
let you know, the sheer burden of this final address made its
composition a challenge—I was actually tempted yesterday to simply
read a series of text messages that went back and forth between our two
children about how to compose a good graduation talk; but as most text
message exchanges often do, things became slightly inappropriate so I
thought it would be better not to share. Of course, I want to tell you
everything I know and believe because this is one of those last
opportunities we hear about; I want to say it well and I want you to
listen and to remember. I doubt very much I will achieve even a small
fraction of what in my mind I have set out to do. But we must begin
somewhere.
I am a teacher and in the spirit of good delivery, I will offer first of all a
visual that will be at the centre of much of what I want to reflect on

3. today.
The white swim cap.
Almost a month ago, along with about sixty members of this community,
I made my way down to the Provincial Park to work as a volunteer at
the Shawnigan Triathlon. If I were to be honest, I would say I went along
reluctantly.
The truth is I find the atmosphere at most triathlons frightening—
perhaps it is that the athlete participants have so much to manage--
wetsuits, goggles, bikes, helmets, socks, two kinds of shoes, putting stuff
on, taking stuff off, and then doing that again, running up one path and
down another, returning by a reverse route—and so they seem to me to
be incredibly tightly wound, they have a kind of “angry care bear face”
that sets them apart from their family and friends who float among
them with small children and sleep deprived boyfriends in tow. Many
look tired before they have even begun and it’s hard to know how to
help. At a road race, when you volunteer you can give out tiny cups of
sloshing gatorade, clap enthusiastically and shout “good job…keep it
up…you look so strong!” At a tri I want to say “You look miserable…Stop
it right now; this is killing you…Here, why don’t you just lie down and
rest before you collapse.” Triathloning is not pretty. The organizers too
match the intensity of the athletes—they shout at you, point and
redirect you mid-stride, their walkie-talkie authority sets them apart
and above. When I show up with my coffee and my flipflops, I mostly get

4. in the way.
But I do this particular event for Mr. Kingstone who has embraced crazy
tri culture, bringing us all along with him. And since he knows me well
and has picked up on some of my impatience and discomfort, he usually
assigns me to a very specific task, one that will keep me out of trouble.
And keep him from having to explain to his tri-pals—that’s just my wife,
she’s used to being in charge. Ignore her; she’ll get used to it.
So this year, I am put in charge of white swim caps, not for all the
athletes, mind you, just for the three or four Shawnigan students who
will need one. It looked like something I could handle.
For those who do not know, the white cap identifies those who are first
time triathletes or just inexperienced, nervous, frightened swimmers—
it’s a safety measure. The caps stand out like beacons, they demand the
attention of your eyes in the flurry of arms and legs and water, among
the blues and purples, bright oranges and fluorescent pinks of the more
experienced athletes—the loss of a white cap from sight is cause for
action.
So I deliver my white caps.
When the race is about to begin I see the white caps, placed snuggly on
the heads of those students I am most anxious for. And for some reason,
I feel my resistance to this challenge begin to drop away from me—I

5. have forgotten the officious organizers, the haggard looks of many of the
competitors; in the short time I have watched these first time athletes
go through their careful, deliberate preparations, heard them ask
questions about the how and when, repeat these again once or twice to
be sure they have all the information necessary to do this well, I
recognize the determination they are exercising—they have committed,
and despite their inexperience, they are behaving like champions.
I see them now in the water, becoming familiar with its dark patterns,
shading their eyes against the early morning light, looking out towards
the first buoy, moving their arms and legs in an effort to shake off the
chill and apprehension that fills the air, their hearts and their lungs.
And then suddenly the swim is over, one by one they are sprinting out of
the water. Stripping off wet suits and white caps, they transition into the
rest of the race.
You know me well enough to see where I am going—
There are white cap moments for us all—we remember those for
ourselves, times when we too were standing on the water’s edge, or
perhaps in it, already up to our knees—looking clear-eyed in the
direction we must travel, or maybe more often, peering down at the
possibilities of lurking danger, or even with our backs to the skyline
gazing, instead, longingly at the shore, unable to bear the thought of
lifting our feet off the rocky surface beneath the water. But we were

6. there all the same. Novices, perhaps untrained, taking a step into a new
transition.
Today is one such moment. Leaving the school to begin the next great
adventure of your lives is much the same as entering into unknown
waters as a novice swimmer—but it is also merely a part of the journey.
You have done this so many times already that you may not even
understand how skilled you are at standing strong, embracing change,
drawing on the courage of your convictions, the integrity of your
character and above all, the power of the white cap.
Yes, the power of the white cap—which is having the awareness to
recognize your vulnerability, but not to give in to it, to see yourself in
terms of your limitations, but not to be limited by them, to embrace
what seems to be insurmountable, but not to collapse beneath the
weight of it, to know that others like you may also wonder just how they
are going to get through this day’s challenge, but not to judge them for
their hesitation; to seek and ask for help. The power to look up and out
and see yourself swimming, strong and straight, with all the things you
have come to know as good and true—this place, the people you see
around you right now, your parents and friends, teachers, coaches and
mentors, the people who love you and those you love, the many lessons
learned on playing fields, in classrooms, on stages, in dormitories and in
quiet moments of kindness and self-reflection—all of these informing
you, guiding you and buoying you up through this wonderful, amazing
and rich transition

7. This 21st
Century world gives us plenty to hide behind, tools that allow
us to believe we are more than we are, better than we are, faster,
stronger, smarter, more accurate, more interesting, more competent—
technology and cell phone apps, specialized programs and equipment,
consultants and personal trainers.
From my point of view, all you need is a white cap, a white cap and your
courage. The rest will take care of itself.