Unlike the others in their bathing suits, I'm going in the water fully clothed because it’s too cold here for someone of my age. Just below the surface I hold my breath and look up at the distorted, dancing full moon.

I moved to this village because of its great people: Lakeville-on-the-Lake. Because of its men with their interesting baroque faces, because of the flaxen-blonde children and their light-skinned mothers who don’t lock their rooms when their husbands no longer come home. Naked they lie in the morning sun, shining through the curtainless windows.

Only if I joined a local club would I get closer to the people of the village, I was told. There were five clubs, and each of them had a message board at the fire station. Soccer was out of the question because it hurts my legs, shooting I oppose on principle, and small-animal breeding is not my cup of tea, nor do I play chess.

That left the diving club. Children’s classes on Friday afternoon, slide show sessions every third Saturday of the month, and free diving competitions when the moon is full—all year round. I have huge lungs, and I take part in order to connect to the community. I'm always the last one to come up, and often the only one.

And, yes, over the next few weeks I will again caress the flaxen blonde curls of some of Lakeville’s fatherless children, and probably also visit their mothers. But it's primarily about sports, and in sports, everybody in Lakeville-on-the-Lake sticks to the rules.

I’m still holding my breath, taking my time before I resurface.

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Rupprecht Mayer was born 1946 near Berchtesgaden. After some 20 years living and working in Taiwan, Beijing, and Shanghai, he recently resettled in Southeast Bavaria. He translates Chinese literature and writes short prose. English versions appeared in Atticus, Bicycle Review, Connotation Press, Frostwriting, Gravel, Hobart, Mikrokosmos/Mojo, NAP, Nano Fiction, Ninth Letter, Orange Quarterly, Postcard Shorts, Prick of the Spindle, Radius, The Newer York, Word Riot and Washington Square.