My eyes told me I was at the LaGrange College natatorium, where the man of the house and I were the designated drivers for the grandtwins and their sister, the princess, all busy with swimming lessons.

My eyes told me I was at the pool, but for a minute I thought I’d stumbled into a meeting of the Liar’s Club.

Two honor grads of Sink or Swim U. were trading stories as they waited for their own offspring to finish splashing.

“I’ll tell you how I learned to swim,” said the first, a paunchy fellow with red face and shoulders to match.

“I was about eight years old, and my daddy had taken me out fishing in the boat. He asked me to check the string of fish we had dangling over the side. When I bent over, he nudged me in the backside with the boat paddle.

“I went overboard and sank like a stone. That’s when I learned to swim. Quick.”

“Aw, that’s nothing,” said his balding, barrel-chested companion.

“When I was a kid, we used to walk the railroad trestle that crossed the river right below my house. Everyone could swim but me and I was too embarrassed to admit it.

“One day the train came while we were on the trestle and I had to jump. Bingo. I could swim.”

Sure fellows. And the next day you climbed a tree, the limb broke and bingo, you could fly, right?

I hate to be a skeptic, but have you ever noticed where you find all these daring folks who learned to swim on such short notice? You find them in a comfortable chair beside a comfortable pool, with a dry book in one hand and a dry bathing suit on their body.

I confess I’ve been tempted to lure a few of them to the edge of the pool. One push and we’d see how well those sink or swim lessons sank in.

I figured out a long time ago that fishermen aren’t the only storytellers who are all wet. Like the fish which got away while Utah fly fishing, my daddy’s swimming tale just kept getting bigger and bigger.

The first time he told it, it went like this:

“When I was six, your granddaddy threw me off the end of a dock into eight feet of water and told me to swim back or drown.”

The next time I heard it, it was “When I was five, your granddaddy threw me off the end of a dock into ten feet of water.”

The day I got my lifesaving badge, Daddy patted me on the back and announced: “When I was four, your granddaddy threw me off the end of a dock into 15 feet of water.”

Sure, Dad. And you had to walk six miles through the snow to get home, right?

Actually I have good reason to doubt these sink or swim stories. Somebody tried it on me. I sank.

Oh, it wasn’t my daddy trying to teach me to dog paddle. It was my brother, trying to see if I’d drown.

He nearly got his wish.

We little kids were standing around the deep end of the pool, watching with envy as the big kids flipped and jackknifed off the board, back in the day when public pools had boards. I immediately developed a full-fledged crush on the handsome lifeguard, who could do a full-fledged gainer.

“Go on, jump. I dare you,” egged my brother.

When I didn’t, he took matters and the back of my bathing suit into his own hands. Then he pushed. Hard.

I sank, memorizing forever the pattern of cracks in the pool wall, to the spot ominously marked “12 feet.”

Not once do I remember thinking, “I’m going to drown.” I remember thinking, “I’m going to drown in front of all these people. How embarrassing.”

Suddenly the lifeguard’s strong, tanned arms were around me, pulling me firmly toward the surface.

Not once do I remember thinking “I’m being pulled out.” I remember thinking, “I’m being pulled out in front of all these people.”

I would rather have drowned.

My crush was crushed. So was my ego.

Sink or swimming lessons? No thanks, friends.

Like they say, different strokes for different folks.