sign of cramps, no fatigue; left, right, left, just like the old days in the senior aquacade, the fancy moves showing style and endurance; he tries them all: the glides, the circle rolls, the egg beater, ending in the butterfly, both arms jacking him out of the water, his shoulders feeling the strain, too much, the sockets grown rusty. He treads water and finds the buoy, closer than he thought, and decides to race the rest of the way; one gulp of air and he's off, slap after slap, breathing only when breath is gone; he gives it everything he's got left, glancing ahead, keeping his sightline, the bell louder and cleaner all the time; he glides the last few feet and touches the casing, barely able to hook his feet in the rings, his fingers tight on the seam, and squints back toward home. He begins to shiver, convinced he cannot return, that the change in his marrow may never be known; he hangs on and weeps, pronouncing over and over the names of those waking on shore without him. He closes, at last, his eyes, the taste of blood draining from his gums, a trace welling in his ears, almost aware of the bell tolling softly tolling, as he slips back into the sea. In the middle of the yard he sits on a bench and bangs his fists on the picnic table, pleading with closed windows to "call the cops call the cops call the stinkin' cops."