Now, it was long about time: we sat on the pool deck in neat rows and columns, shivering spiritedly, sucking in all available ambient sunlight like a Goddamned black hole (Brian Kimber sanctioned epithet).

The skies became ashen and sober. Leaves, crisped and seared began to rustle as a whisper of vermouth wind swept them from their hides at the lee of obstacles.

“Looks like a storm might be a-comin’, Geo.”

“Yep Matt, seems…”

“Looks like this one could be a real stinkah, ayuh!”

“Oh, there is a storm a-brewing alright, Matt.”

“Buddy teams, GET IT ON!” the pool instructors shrieked like some deranged banshees!” Those instructors had the pain, they loved the pain, they wore the pain like body armor, they were born again into a world where pain holds the only key. They WERE the pain!

Men sprang to feet and clinked and clanked. There rose the incidental “Buunngggggg” of a head striking an aluminum dive cylinder of air pressed to 3000 pounds per square inch gage (psig). Oddly, the man whose head struck the tanks turned nervously to the man wearing the tanks: