Not a Team Player

Barton Springs Early Morning Swim Report, 8/19/2023

Another new human phenomenon at the pool: three very fast snorkeling swimmers towing blow-up, light-up floats. My first reaction was irritation, of course: the skunk expels scent as a defense; the squid, ink; me, contempt. But the floats were beautiful, in their way, one red and two palest yellow, brighter than other floats I’ve seen. They seemed part of an obscure water ceremony.

The vegetation in the pool was handsy. I swam three laps, the last in the first swimming daylight of my week. I had to contend with a group of swimmers I’ve encountered before, about eight people in neon swim caps who like to race each other, or swim abreast together, I’m not sure which. All I know is that they come at me or overtake me and they’re difficult to negotiate.

On my last lap a crowd of young men—literal dozens—were swimming width-wise the pool, a belt of churning, back-and-forth humanity in the half-light. Goddammit, said I to myself, as I so often do. Then: they’ll just have to deal with me. I doddered aquatically on. There was a gap and I went through it, and the young swimmers and I evaded each other until I felt the accidental slap of a callow hand upon my middle-aged tuchis. I persisted.

When I swam back, I saw that the young men were even younger than I’d thought, high school students.

I hope that my unknown ass-slapper has shaken off his odd encounter by now, as I have.