They say Capricorns are naturally drawn to water, and I am both of these things. But I am also afraid: there will always be something unsettling about the depth and shade of it.

I’ve plunged myself into countless bodies, seen pool tiles mimic the ocean depths and forcing me to swim with my eyes screwed shut. The generic bluish-whiteness of the municipal pool seems tame by comparison.

I’ve timed my visits so lane five, the pool’s dead center, is always free. Often the lanes on either side of mine are empty and I’m just far enough away not to get distracted by the free play and aquaerobics junkies. I’m aware of my own nakedness and the fact I’m surrounded mostly by black and brown bodies.

In this water we are free.

It fills me with joy to feel the energy, multiple lanes away, of boys roughhousing and girls splashing around in groups: a pair flitted under me once, shocking me into standing up mid-freestyle—I only minded a little.

As I slice through the water I catch glimpses of the lifeguard making her rounds, a medpack and radio hugging her waist. The red and yellow shorts do her strong thighs every favor.

My own, however, are quick to burn from the strain; my right ear perpetually waterlogged. I am not the strongest swimmer but my strokes are earnest; being self-taught affords only a modest increase in speed. Not nearly enough to outswim the thoughts rising from the chaff.

The concerns change from day to day, lap to lap: my place in the world, the shape of the next few months and years.

I think about how my form reflects who I am as a person. Lacking the power and coordination demanded by freestyle, I’ve adopted the breaststroke as my main. It’s harder than it seems but I like that to go fast you really have to go slow.

I flirt sometimes with the idea of joining a swim club but the extra fees are out of reach at the moment. And I like having lane five to myself. Chlorine seeping into my pores, goggles perpetually foggy, I like having no one else to compete with—I am my own metric. 📝