The man could not swim. He had been brought up to fear the water. It would drown him. So he did not use his youth to shake himself of fear. He did not try to swim and he did not learn.

Later in life he attempted to learn. But it is hard to commit to swimming when you are afraid of the very water you are swimming in. And he did not learn to swim.

The man wished nothing more than to teach his sons to do something he could not. He wished to teach them to swim though he could not swim himself.

He stood, each day, in the swimming pool. Each son wore a pair of arm bands because the man could not let them sink before they swam; he was afraid they would drown.

He walked backwards toward the deep end of the pool, toward the danger. They swam toward his encouraging gestures. Each time they swam, they became stronger swimmers, less afraid and swam toward the danger. Still the man taught but did not learn.

One day the man walked deeper than usual into the pool to where the water was up to his neck and he slipped on the tiles. His sons — swimming towards his gestures — paused. He thrashed at the water.

“Take my hand, Daddy.” He did not take it.

The hand was too small to save the man though the hand felt braver than it was. The man did not take it and it did not matter.

“Take my hand, Daddy.” And he did not take it.

A stranger fished the man from the bottom of the pool. He pounded the man’s chest and the man coughed up water and began to breathe again. Another stranger’s son dove to the bottom of the pool and returned the man’s glasses. And the man could see and the man could breathe and the man regained his consciousness.

The boys learnt to swim and their arms grew stronger. The man could not swim and did not learn. And everything went back to normal over and over again as it always has done and always will.