At the pool, where I have found myself regularly after work, is a sign that enigmatically states, “Pool Capacity 541.” Every day for months, I have formulated the question, capacity for what? Is it 541 gallons of water, 541 people who can squeeze themselves into the pool, or 541 laps a person is allowed to swim before he will be asked to leave for fear of a fainting incident and subsequent lawsuit? I like to picture 541 people in this pool on a sunny day in July. Maybe it is an event for the Guiness Book of World Records, or a reunion for my entire high school, plus several of the cool teachers. Each time someone else steps in, I picture the crowd greeting her with a loud “Hooray!” as it tosses a beach ball in her direction. It would be like a big welcoming bathtub with rounds of laughter given out in turns.

Normally, as I muse on the meaning of the mysterious sign, I am periodically brought back to my surroundings by Gus, an older gentleman, who for reasons unknown to me, has the most lopsided stroke I have ever encountered. Before I knew his name, I fondly, and sometimes angrily, referred to him as “Slappy.” One can be calmly swimming in one’s self-appointed lane, when Whabam! A mini tsunami strikes a deadly blow to the face. Luckily, I have learned Gus’ rhythm and manage to either swim ahead of him or stay well behind. Unfortunately for other swimmers, Gus also happens to be one of the slowest swimmers I have known, but this is probably not at all related to his unique stroke. I am convinced that the saying, “Different strokes for different folks” is an explicit reference to someone like Gus.

At first, I was frustrated and dismayed that Gus’ and my swimming schedules were so well-synchronized. I couldn’t escape him, since we were both resigned to the slow end of the pool, he for reasons already stated, and I for rehabilitating a sprained ankle. I freely admit to chuckling at a teenage girl’s biting question to her friends as she watched Gus in action. “Is that even considered swimming?” But one day, Gus and I were both marginalized by a swim coach who had blocked half our lane. We started talking about swimming, and he volunteered that though he wasn’t very good at it, he enjoyed the calming effect of the exercise, and the reprieve from his computer science desk job. I found myself admiring him for attempting something challenging and admitting to inadequacy. And then it occurred to me, who knows? Maybe he had a stroke that left his left arm permanently out of sync with his right. Our judgment of others is so easily made without reflection.

Lately, I have been reflecting on the courage and power of the eight, nine, and ten year-old divers who practice at the opposite end of my lane. Watching these young girls stand with their backs to the abyss, bracing themselves and springing fearlessly into a free fall is both nerve-racking and awe-inspiring. I always watch in disbelief—how can they just fall back like that? Their effortlessness draws me in and I find that I cannot look away or breathe until I see their arms plunge through the glassy surface and reconnect with the water’s embrace. Surely, logic does not rule in this realm, as the girls practice the ultimate rejection of the notion that seeing is believing.

As I swim along, I try to imagine myself in their place. How would I react? Would I doubt myself in the face of those fundamental elements of air and water, neglecting to place due confidence in the power of my muscles and instinct? I conclude — or rather, my beating heart and the perspiration forming under my arms at the thought of leaping backwards, hanging on to chance, indicate — that perhaps I would fail to muster sufficient courage. Perhaps I would remain in a ball of timidity and trepidation, paralyzed from what is speculated of the unknown.

As I swim ahead and try to avoid Gus’ deadly sprays, I think about 541 lessons to learn from others and lose myself in the moment. I just found several; approximately 537 to go.