This essay originally appeared in Volume Three of our print magazine—available for purchase here.
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Until night falls, busy yourself beforehand. Carry on normally: drink, drive, eat, have sex. Eventually venture into darkness, winsome and wandering.
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Above all else, don't seek but stumble: the pool should announce itself to you as a shiver, a shudder, a thrill down your spine.
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Deeply inhale.
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Admire it's emptiness; embrace the unusualness of the scene. Understand the breach you're about to embark upon.
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Survey your surroudings: identify any entrances and determine all exits. Remember that foolishness is only fun when unwanted outcomes can be avoided.
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Allow your adrenaline to surge. Imagine a tide, the only apt metaphor here.
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Hoist yourself over the fence. As you straddle the border, that interstice above civility, chide any companions too cowardly to follow suit.
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On the other side, land lightly and undress quickly. Slide into the water; feel the liquid on your skin. Revel in your peaceful, private, public pool.
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As the surface ripples, emulate stillness or serenity. Rest your neck against the side's concrete lip. Or float there, your ear an actual canal.
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Stay submerged: tread the length of the pool or swim just one lap. Soak until your fingertips wither into wrinkled fruit. Bask in whatever emotions (fear, anxiety, elation, desire) arise.
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Re-emerge, gracefully or giddily. Notice how cool air and damp skin commingle.
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Quickly, don't dally.
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Jump up and down; shake like a mutt; fling any wetness away. Collect your clothing, still a mess on the floor. Scale the lifeguard stand (you only escape route); soar back to safety.
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Stand there, stunned and soaking. Rub your eyes; revel in disbelief. Bike or walk or drive home. Smile yourself to sleep.
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In daylight, second guess your antics. Even your sanity. Awake with the crunch of chlorine still clinging to your hair.
