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Throw everyone in the pool. They adopt a stroke almost immediately. Most freestyle it, face down, propelling from prone, alternate overarming, scissor kicking, Australian crawling, ice smooth repeaters: nose, nipple, knackers, knee; leaning sideways to draw unhurried breaths as they barrel ahead, barely creating a ripple. More casually, backstrokers reverse themselves, lean back from supine positions, thrusting faces, stomachs, genitals skywards, expecting no impediments, like so many half-animated, drifting logs. Double-arming butterfliers launch themselves from underwater, splay-grasping air then fresh wet territory, bound-leggedly threshing, projecting their exuberance. Now there's us lot. Tentative foragers, parting water in front of our noses, groping forward, too soon sweeping backwards to hips, legs frog-kicking, heads under dipped, emerging, for a snatched breath, bent-backed, and a fresh go at it. Maybe this time ... bw