This really happened.
I enjoy swimming alone. I learned to swim against the current in the Hudson, and I am a strong and capable swimmer, and my young daughter cannot keep up with me. So my chances to swim the way I want to are slim.
So when she was away at summer camp, I drove to the secret swimming hole after work. I had—if you like to swim in rivers or lakes you’ll know what I mean—a short time before the setting sun turned it from a refreshing to a chilling experience.
I got in the water before the sun set, when sparkles dappled the rapidly flattening surface. As the sun goes down over my favorite part of the Hudson, the wind also dies down, but only someone of strong constitution enjoys the cold of the black water, with no sun to warm the shoulders when you emerge.
By myself, I swam, I dove, I did the crawl against the current, diagonally upstream—which is the only way to swim “across”—and down. And as the sun was just setting, I emerged, in my bikini, to find a man had arrived, on a motorcycle, to my secret swimming hole.
Yes, dripping and rippling from my exertion, I faced the man as he got off his bike.
OK, I wasn’t ripped. But I was as pumped as possible for my build, based on the exercise I had just done.
He appraised me, took off his shirt, grunted, jumped in the water, and swam at torpedo speed upstream.
Good people, this is NOT how it was supposed to end.