My first job out of college was in sales. After training I was partnered with a young black man. We traveled together our first week on the road, taking turns being the salesman. Our territory included Vermont, Massachusetts, New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Delaware. We drove a lot. At the end of one grueling day we stopped at a YMCA. We got a locker, stripped, and showered. As we followed a sign pointing to the pool I said, “where do we get our swimsuits?”

“You don’t need one,” he replied as we stepped out into the pool area.

I froze. A college-age female lifeguard in a one-piece bathing suit stared at me. Three men with their bodies in the water, leaning against the side of the pool, stared at me. My associate dove in and swam away.

Blood rushed to my head. Were there any girls there? My vision blurred, I couldn’t see. I moved towards the water. It seemed as if my hands had to physically lift each leg to take a step. I reached the edge of the pool, jumped in and sank to the bottom. The water was cool. Consciousness returned. I pushed up to the surface and grabbed the edge of the pool. A swimmer stopped beside me. “Feels good, huh?” It was my sales partner. He pushed off and swam away.

A boy, about eight years old, climbed up a nearby ladder. He was naked. He scurried towards the shallow end. The lifeguard blew her whistle and shouted, “walk.”

I pushed off the the edge and swam. It felt good.