Bubbles rush my ears. I stroke, stroke, stroke. The world disappears into the rhythm of my hands cupping water. Focus. Maneuver. What is today? 5th Avenue in New York at lunch time? Breast strokers wide splayed kicks crossing lanes creating turmoil. Slow swimmers invade the fast lane. Fast swimmers in slow lanes charge past others creating chaos in the narrow channels. Someone lays motionless on the bottom. Is he breathing?
Stroke, stroke, stroke. Bottom boy moves at last traversing the length of the pool under the swimmers churning on the surface. How is he breathing? No matter. He disappears from view. Where are the lifeguards directing traffic?
Concentrate. Make flatter movements. Reduce resistance in this foaming boil. Up and back. Lap after lap. Stroke, stroke, stroke.
13 is one way to count the distance. Meters is another. Add it up. Total the week. Too many strokes to count them individually. Can’t think about them that way least I begin to differentiate between the bad, the good and the indifferent. It’s just stroke, stroke, stroke. Floating as I do on the edge of two worlds.
