1:23
1:24
Touch. And a gasp for breath.
1:27
“Dammit Jonathon, do you goddamned fl–”
1:30
Accompanied by a miniscule splash, he takes off.
1:35
I briefly reflect, Dammit, Pfaphy’s going to bitch at us again and make us redo the set, before sprinting after him, only to witness yet another open turn.

I’ve been on the swim team for 3 years, but I’m not really a swimmer. My times are mostly sub-par, not yet breaking the minute in the 100 free, and only 27 seconds in the 50. I suppose my butterfly can pass as mediocre, not the least because nobody else cares to do it. I raced a varsity swimmer in the 25 breast before: him with one arm, one leg, and me with the unrestrained use of my full body. I lost.

Did I mention that I’m insane? I obviously am, rejoining the team year after year, while my times negligibly improve. Taking pride and a sense of accomplishment in finishing a set – which, to be honest, involves little more than going back and forth, back and forth. Feeling a forlorn sense of unfulfilled justice when my teammates, lanemates, friends, surreptitiously skip yards without consequence, through the use of bulkhead-hiding and go-so-conveniently-slow-that-people-lap-you-and-then-speedup. More questioning of justice when these same people, who skip half of practice, don’t do the actual drills, and generally goof off, somehow, magically, come meet time, are graced faster times. But I keep swimming. Like I said, insane.

Although, to recognize insanity, I suppose I’d have to be sane in the first place.