If you like to swim (or not) and if you think there may be something in common between writing and swimming, check out Cinthia Ritchie’s post here.
It was dark, and there was no sound, no smell. When I opened my eyes all I could see were silver bubbles escaping from my mouth.
It was about 9 p.m. and I was swimming across DeLong Lake on a windy evening, the sky still light but overcast, the temperature, which had been close to 80 degrees earlier, cooling off so that the few people on shore wore jackets and baseball caps.
My goggles had fogged over and I could see nothing but the grey and choppy water, and my partner’s bright blue inflatable pack raft/boat. The waves were high enough that water splashed on my face and in my mouth. It was difficult to breathe and soon I lost all sense of where I was. I simply swam, my arms and legs moving through that cold water.
Yet when I opened my eyes on the underwater strokes, it was…
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