i was a mermaid for a long time.

for a while i believed i could breathe underwater. i'm not sure i ever specifically tested this theory, but i never drowned either, so maybe it was true. once, during fouryearold swimming lessons that i don't remember, the instructor got tired of my impatience, and after the eighth or tenth time i jumped off the wall before it was my turn, he didn't swim out to save me. my mom tells me that i paddled about valiantly for a while before slowly sinking to the bottom of the pool. eventually the lifeguard pulled me out, and five minutes later i jumped off the wall again.

thirteen years later i breathe little underwater snorts through my nose at the end of a hundredyard heldbreath sprint. i don't choke and the coach smiles at me as i hit the wall, gasping.

in the intervening time, i gathered a modest collection of flimsy blue ribbons, took nintey minute showers, and one midnight was pulled screaming from the ocean by four friends who i hadn't heard yelling until they took hold of my arms. we decided one summer that the only way to approach our water was to holler at the top of your lungs while running as fast as you can, and not to stop either until completely soaked.

as far as i can tell, that's the only way to approach anything, really.