Parents did most of the work
while we mostly floated on styrofoam noodles
bobbing between tubes
and the tiniest of toddlers slapped around in
cartooned swimmies
letting the rotating current drag us along
picking up our feet feeling the undercurrent
squiggling through our toes
tugging at our swimsuits
making bloated air pockets in our crotches

a select few
the more bold took big breaths before
going under
the force propelling us further that our cupped hands often could
and more likely than not
into a collision of legs
and toenails and furious bubbles
like aquatic insects zipping over chlorine slick skin
burning inside our noses

when the water was whisking faster
than we could push
waves sloshing over the sides
hiccupping relentlessly into the drain
the circle finding its other end
someone inevitably yelled switch
and we would

the pressure mounting onto our backs
dividing its way around
our browned arms and bleached hairs
fanning out
cutting the water like a ship’s bow
on expedition to discover unknown continents

and with aching appendages we fought against the tides
as if our lives depended on it
—and made up a heroic story as to why they did—
until the whirlpool’s water changed direction
as if it had always been moving that way