Me…? 

I am a bit woozy after my last beer. 
It’s about 15:30... says my watch. 
The sun scorching hot, the water cool and salty. I lie face up, floating on a tube about a kilometre off the beach. 

This feels good. The water lapping paff paff against my ear, drowning for brief moments, the distant drone of voices from the shore. I laugh at the crowd clinging to the safety and comfort of the hot sand. Poor Sods! Look at me, king supreme in my own ocean.

I notice the bald pate of a man forming in the the corner of my eye. 
He is about 100-150 meters away, swimming vigorously into the sea.

Hey, hey old man, wait up for me! says a small voice in my head as I give chase. 

He is a good swimmer! Ducks underwater when he has to, surfaces as needed. Resting in between, waiting for the right waves… impressive.

Five minutes into this one-sided race he seems to notice my presence. He stops… smiles and waves, saying something I cannot quite get. I wave back anyway.

We go on. 

My strokes turn jagged. How dare he swim farther than I? I kick harder than I need to. Probably faster than I? I am now slapping water instead of cutting it. How dare he go where even I think twice before venturing?

We are now 3 kilometres from shore.

Deep blue around me.

I smell the sea…
I taste it in my bones…
I feel it in my very soul.

My nerve breaks.

I   float  helplessly. 

Will the sea monster 
lurking below 
swallow me? 

Paralysed.
I watch as the chap still goes forth.
A few moments later in the distance, he turns back.

My shoulders relax... I wait...
He is in line with me now. I anchor my gaze on him and start to paddle back.

Closer to the shore, I feel safe 
the voice in my head pipes up again
To hell with you old man, I am gonna reach that beach first!

I make it to the shore. 
I plant both feet in the sand, chest out, a smirk pulling my chin up as I look back at the water, waiting for him to come in.

He gets closer,
   breaking into a crawl—
      eight feet—
        four feet—
          a foot deep in the water—
            he is still crawling—
              now on his hands—

onto the beach

and into the welcoming arms of his wife, towel ready, waiting to dry his shrivelled formless polio-ridden legs with.

Me? 

I …