Not all men.

The man who inexplicably asks me why I’m not wearing goggles when I’m swimming breaststroke. “If that’s what you call what you’re doing.”

The man who pressures me to explain my injury when he stops me mid lap, unsolicited, to correct my flutter kick.

The man who joins my lane after I have begun swimming, then lets me know another lane has become free which he thinks “I might prefer.”

The man who ignores the ‘no diving’ sign and enters the pool with a flying leap and a bombie, sending a wave of water into my face and into the faces of the three elderly people who are walking in the lane next to mine.

The man who uses the water as a repository for the contents of his ‘bushman’s hanky.’

The man who says nothing when his son ducks below the water to grab me roughly by the ankle, and emerges without acknowledgment to share a laugh about it with his dad.

The man who sees the pool is busy and chooses the lane set aside for slower swimmers, the lane I am swimming in, then powers up and down in a ferocious freestyle, unapologetic whenever there’s a collision.

The man with the silver chain around his neck who takes regular breaks to survey the swimmers, who interrupts my laps to ask me how much longer I’ll be, who calls out, “I’ll miss you,” as I leave the water. “Don’t worry,” his mate tells me. “He says that to all the girls.”