andygates

The dawn is a deep red, scorching the bellies of low black clouds into a dull hot bronze.  That's to my left through the huge picture window at the pool; to my right, a haze of splashing and limbs.  I'm swimming without contact lenses this morning, barely able to make out the gridwork of tiles on the pool floor, and no more detail than that.

It is very busy. 

And after a few lengths, imagination and that apocalyptic sunrise conspire.  All the other swimmers are of a similar build: squat, thick-shouldered, a little muscular, a little ungainly.  Are they really all bald?  Are they swimming in sync, some awful, blasphemous sympatico that unites these slippery heavy fish-men?

Dear gods, I'm in a pool full of Deep Ones.

Don't panic.  They'll taste it, and they'll converge on you.  Just keep swimming.  Just keep swimming.

The illusion is broken only when I start drafting drills, swimming up close to the swimmer in front to take advantage of their wake.  No fish-man has such a ragged kick as this.  No half-human spawn of Dagon breaks into breast-stroke halfway up a length so that I end up up their arse.  And look, the feet that have just kicked me in the face are not webbed!  Sweet relieving joy!  These are humans after all!

And with a profound sense of relief, I shower and get the hell out of Dodge.