Kramer was in water and the water was cool. Kramer swam. He felt at home in the sea. Perhaps this was a throw-back to a time when man first crawled onto the warm sand of some pre-historic beach. Before we stood erect.
Before Hollywood.
Swim, said the little fish, swim if you can.
But the water's thick and Kramer skims the surface.
Mark Spitz weighed down only by the medals hanging around his neck like some aquatic Mr. T.
Then a headland, directly in front and rising skyward like the pillars of Hercules. Must swim around, thought Kramer, sensing good times just around the corner. The headland had sheer white cliffs, higher than he first had thought, but were not chalk. More glass-like, smooth and wet and slightly reflective, and Kramer saw himself swim by. Look good for the camera.
Then Kramer was surfing. Surfing in towards a wide beach several hundred yards away. But the beach faded, just as quickly as it had appeared. The waves now broke directly onto a tiled surface. But Kramer could not describe what he saw accurately. The sand and the tiles merged and melted into one. He had the impression of a wide and shallow swimming pool, or a motorway. Route 66 where the kicks come free, a channel cut into the earth, sloping gently down into a tunnel and disappearing. The waves broke and the water spilled into the channel creating a huge and six-laned water slide. People were playing happily in the warm shallow water, throwing beach balls and frisbees. Others dived off the low sides into six inches of fast flowing water only to emerge unscathed. The beach balls sank as if made of lead and the frisbees flew off of their own accord, high up into the air as if searching for frisbee heaven. Heaven knows. Heaven's above. Heaven help us.
And then the race. Gladiators ready! Two men in old-fashioned full-bodied swimsuits threw themselves in the water and slid off into the depths. Crowds lined the well-lit tunnel and cheered their favourite. The competitors flew by., lying on their backs with legs in the air. They had no control, but were swept along by the tide and the gradient.
Disco lights flashed. John Travolta, his white suit now stained with Diet Coke and ketchup, danced a fandango with Calamity Jane. Kramer could not restrain himself. Desperate for the thrill of this ride he dived in head first, to be joined in the next lane by a life-sized blow-up locomotive. The Chattanooga Choo-Choo full of hot air. Blow-up wheels, blow-up engine, blow-up tender, blow-up driver and fireman and blow-up cow shifter on the blow-up front. The race was on! Race with the Devil.
Swim for your life.
But the water was getting deeper. Kramer tried swimming but had forgotten how. He felt himself sinking. Go down three times and you're a dead man.
Once, then up again.
One down, two to go.
Once upon a time. Twice around the daffodils.
Down again.
Bubbles. Bubbles filled with fish.
Love me two times baby, love me twice today.
Three to get ready.
Down and down now, like a water baby. Back into the warmth.
Back into the womb. Back into the room.
Back into nothingness.