Thirty-one, and finally in the deep end

There is a particular kind of shame, Ama says, in being an adult in a coastal city who cannot swim. You decline beach invitations. You stand at the edge of pools with a drink, as if by choice.

She found the learn-to-swim block through a colleague and nearly did not go. The first session was entirely in the shallow end — blowing bubbles, holding the wall, learning to trust that the water would hold her up. Abena, who coaches the class, does not rush anybody.

I cried after my first length. Happy tears. Mostly.

By week six she swam her first unbroken length. By month eleven she was in the sea at Bojo Beach, sighting the orange buoy, a kayak alongside her. She swam 750 metres and walked out of the water to applause from a group of people who, a year earlier, had been strangers.

"The swimming is the obvious part," she says. "What nobody tells you is how much of your life you have been arranging around a fear. That's what you get back."