Spitball Army

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CT tech says to hold my breath 30 seconds: “Most people can’t.” I make it 62 to prove all those swimming years good for something.

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As for the rest of me, physically I’m O.K. I have a few odds and ends to break up the monotony though. They are: fungus, heat rash, athlete’s foot, crud, and a general breaking out all over.

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A few weeks ago, I noticed that there were an awful lot of black hash marks on my swimming chart. Counting them, I found that I was closing in on one hundred miles.

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There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.

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There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.

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There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.

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There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.

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One of the pool’s occupants was a young black boy, about ten years old. I could see him jumping up and down in the four-foot free-swim zone as I was swimming my laps. His feet would leave the pool floor, then come back down – his knees would immediately bend and he would jump back up again. Over and over and over.

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The Orchestra Rocks;
celery;
interactive journalism

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