Keep at it

The baton passed to Robert and he swam in the sea that seemed to suck him in all directions. His form was imperfect, but is there an ideal form? Like the depth beneath his knees, the thought is unfathomable, and it burns like the sun or photograph flashes from the spectators on their boats that flick their lights at his toiling arms. Of course Robert can only swim so far until too much lactic acid or just exhaustion or despair slows his kicks, and he sinks; even though he dislikes it he must admit the hypocrisy of inhaling so desperately when he only draws in water. And so the baton passes to Jerry and he starts strong--swim, Jerry, the crowd and you and everything is on fire.