The old man, white and topheavy, moving at a measured stagger into green water. His clamshell white legs still told of ridged socks removed within the hour, his terry-cloth robe, his sad dugs, his grimace and gritting refusal to take a hand. His final launch into the pool, like a glacier calving, irrevocable, and the second or two of his downturned body on the water, grey hairs fanned on the surface–did he stop moving? Then rolling like a log up he came with a rueful triumphant smile, free of gravity, but too chilled to remain submerged, and groped for the arm of his lady friend. She, big with frosted hair and pepperoni tan, and still just enough in command of her own movements to exhibit grace, to be infinitely patient and giving to one who wanted to be helped without betraying the need to be.