ABOUT A YEAR ago I started learning how to swim. Not for the first time: I had suffered through Saturday morning lessons in dank, echoing pools smelling of waterlogged concrete and urine, and even graduated from “guppy” to “tadpole,” or maybe vice versa, one summer at day camp. But some stubborn instinct to float when I should sink, to breath in when I should blow out, always held me back: I seemed destined to remain a tadpole, or a guppy, forever. For years I conveniently forgot my bathing suit at pool parties, strategically wet my hair so no one would notice that I hadn’t gone under.
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