We’ve won the meet against the Marlins, by a narrow margin—four points, the number of points we edged ahead thanks to our win in the relay. After the Marlins leave, our team has a celebration at the pool with pizza, a big cake, and sodas. I get congratulated a lot, and I congratulate other people, too. It all gets kind of noisy and crazy. I find a spot on the grass, a little apart from the others.

But after a few minutes I’m bored and getting hot. I make my way to the deep end of the pool, where kids are playing a game of water polo. Maxie is playing, sort of, although it’s mainly a bigger kids’ game. He’s a strong swimmer for a little guy. He can tread water for a good, long time. That’s important in water polo, because you have to stay upright by treading water while you pass the ball or try to make a goal. Since the other kids are bigger, and water polo is kind of a hard game, Maxie seems to be spending most of his time hanging onto the wall. Still, like always, he’s an enthusiastic team player.

“Here, here!” He urges his teammates to pass him the ball. “Over there, over there!” he coaches. Every so often Maxie gets the ball, but for the most part the big kids ignore him.

I lower myself into the water, but out of the playing field. As I get in, I notice Jake on the deck across the pool from where I am. He could pass for a swimmer even though he hardly comes to the pool. Jake is bent over the deck as if he is drawing; every so often he goes over to the pool to dip his hand in and then goes back to his drawing. I squint to see him better—he has a small paintbrush in his hand. He’s painting with water on the deck. He looks totally into what he’s doing.

“Whee-yuh!” Maxie’s team has made a goal. “Wheeyuh! Whee-yuh!”

Funny how I actually listened for it at the end of my races, listened for it as a welcome signal of victory. But right now it’s just Maxie’s extremely annoying Unnatural Force shriek. It is unnatural. And it makes me feel all sharp-edged inside.

To escape, I dive under. How great it would be to go diving in the ocean, in the coral reefs off the coast of Bermuda. Dad’s contest ends next week, and he says he’s close to the level of sales needed to win the trip. Wouldn’t that be great?

I surface briefly for a gulp of air, then dive under again. Underwater, I watch the water polo game. The sea of legs treading water reminds me of the underwater forests of giant kelp I’ve learned about in my DeepSea Canyon game. The strands of kelp grow from the ocean floor and they sprout like crazy, as much as two feet per day. They can be one hundred feet tall.

Up again for a mouthful of air, and then under. I love this feeling. But then I remember my breaststroke disqualification.

Forget it. Ha! Forgetting about bad things—floating above them, diving below them, whatever—has never been a big talent of mine. But maybe I’m getting better at it—or at least better at just moving on. Like today, I sure moved on when I swam freestyle in the relay.

I surface and glance over at the deck where Jake is doing his water painting—only he’s not there. Then I look at the water polo field, which is nearly empty. But what’s really strange is how quiet things are. Why have all the kids suddenly stopped their laughing and cheering?

Then I see why, and I almost stop breathing: Maxie is lying on his side on the deck. Jake is bent over him. And a lifeguard is running—sprinting—in the direction of my brothers.