When it was the only option I had left, I jumped into the river. A good ten feet down; in normal circumstance I would have been too scared, but now? I didn’t even think about it.
Before that, all my swimming had been in chlorine-treated, professionally maintained pools. I quickly learned to keep my mouth closed. By the time I made it to the other side and found a gassed-up motorboat tied off on some private pier, I was exhausted and proud and more than a mile downstream.
I’m not saying I’m Michael Phelps; but I’m not zombie food either.