It’s not even 9 on Sunday morning, and already I’m out of my depth.
Looking out of my new goggles and through a bubble-strewn maelstrom of churning waters, I can see the floor of the pool falling away far beneath me, and just for a moment, I consider drowning.
The truth is, I’m into new territory here. Way out of my comfort zone.
I’d thought it only in concentration camps that arrivals were routinely branded, until the ruthlessly efficient blonde by the desk had smilingly scrawled numbers onto my flesh.
And a few minutes later, fearfully lined up in numerical order beside the pool, we’d all edged nervously forwards towards our fate. This was something different. We weren’t just starting a race – we were being processed.
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roads of stone 