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Let me tell you a little something about me: I can’t swim.

I mean, technically I can, in the same way a vampire can survive the sun and a side of garlic. I won’t die right away. But give it a minute. Maybe two. Tops.

Sure, I can kind of tread water. If the water’s calm. And warm. And I haven’t eaten recently. And no one’s watching. And there’s a ladder nearby. Then yeah, I’m Aquaman. But real swimming? Like actual strokes, movement, propulsion? Yeah, not so much. I’m not swimming. I’m negotiating with gravity.

If I fall off a boat 20 feet from shore, start planning the funeral. Closed casket, please. Not because I’ll be bloated or unrecognizable — though, yes, probably that too — but because I’ll be furious. I’ll drown mad. That’s not how I want to go. I want to die peacefully, like a normal person, screaming in my car after missing an exit because I was posting something on TikTok.

It wasn’t always like this. No wait, it was always like this. But there was a moment — a brief, shining moment — when I showed aquatic promise. Summer of 1980. Jeff Lakes Day Camp. I was 8 years old. Pale. String bean. Scared of water deeper than a Ssips box. I refused to dunk my head. You couldn’t pay me. (Technically they were getting paid, because my parents shelled out good money to have teenagers scream “PUT YOUR HEAD UNDER” while I clutched the pool wall like it contained the secrets of the universe.)

But something clicked that summer. I did it. I dunked. I floated. I crossed the three-foot pool without crying. And at the final day ceremony, I was handed an honest-to-goodness trophy: “Most Improved Swimmer.”

Most. Improved. Swimmer. Of the entire camp I held it like it was a Nobel Prize. I might’ve cried. I might’ve flexed. I might’ve walked around the rec hall like I was Mark Spitz (look it up).

But then? Nothing. I plateaued hard. I flatlined at “able to survive for 90 seconds in a YMCA pool if there are noodles nearby.” That’s where I live now. That’s my swim level. I’m not a swimmer. I’m a water tourist.

My swimming style, if we’re being generous enough to call it that, consists of approximately 30 seconds of what I like to call “aggressive drowning prevention” followed by an immediate flip onto my back where I assume the position of a floating starfish having a deep and profound existential crisis. This works for maybe another minute before my legs start doing this thing where they forget they’re supposed to be helping and instead decide to cosplay as anchors.

Oh, and this: I’ve never been off a diving board. Not once. Not even the little one. I have absolutely no interest in hurling myself toward injury for the privilege of being wet and almost certainly concussed. The diving board remains my Everest, if Everest was three feet high and covered in non-slip treads.

Meanwhile, my kids? Fish. My youngest does that thing where she dives in, flips underwater, and comes up like a Bond girl, slicked hair and everything. My son cannonballs like a menace and then swims laps like he’s training for the triathlon. They both learned young. Confident, fearless, sleek little dolphins. It’s honestly insulting.

And then there’s me. Half-submerged, arms flapping, trying to pretend I meant to switch to my back after 45 seconds of vertical panic. I’m like a trip to SeaWorld if a dolphin died.

The worst part isn’t the inability to swim. It’s the social contract violation. Adults are supposed to know how to swim. It’s like not knowing how to drive or not understanding how to work a can opener. People look at you funny when you admit you can’t swim, like you’ve just confessed to never having learned to read or still believing in the tooth fairy.

And every summer, without fail, someone says: “You know, it’s never too late to learn!”

Yes. It is. It’s absolutely too late. I am in my 50s. My body makes noises when I put on socks. I have exactly zero interest in learning a new skill that requires me to be barefoot, shirtless, and surrounded by children. Let me age with dignity.

I know what I am. I’m a land mammal. I respect the water. I hydrate with it. I bathe in it. I point at it when I’m on vacation. But I don’t challenge it.

And here’s the kicker: I don’t even want to swim. Like, what’s the end goal here? I’m not trying to cross the English Channel. I’m not going to fall off a cruise ship because I’ll never be on one. All I want to do is sit near the pool, drink beer, and read a book while yelling “ten more minutes!” to the kids until it’s dark out.

I’ve made peace with my aquatic limitations. I live in New Jersey, not the Maldives. The most dangerous body of water I encounter on a regular basis is the bathtub, and I’ve got that situation pretty well handled. Maybe that eight-year-old kid who won Most Improved Swimmer is still in there somewhere, waiting for his moment to shine. Or maybe he’s perfectly content being the guy who brings the towels and keeps track of everyone’s flip-flops.

So no, I can’t swim. But I can float on my back and stare at the sky like a man who knows his limits. Which, frankly, puts me ahead of 73% the people in Congress.

Some heroes don’t wear capes. Some heroes just make sure everyone else gets out of the pool safely. That’s me. The aquatic safety coordinator. The shallow-end supervisor. The guy who’s absolutely, positively not going anywhere near that diving board.