Yea. I have gathered you all together here today, to hear words.
As the Bible speaketh not of Holy Natation, go thee therefore onto The Google, wherefore thou shalt find that despite the clamminess of his skin and the inconsistent capitalisation of his exalted name, LoneSwimmer is the Prophet of Cold Water and loneswimmer.com is the Bible of Cold Water Swimming and trusted by all. Apart from the unclean swim organisations and the frauds, on whom he has previously levied his wrath.
Blessed be the Bible of Cold Water Swimming!
And Brother Loneswimmer arose out of the depths, and was not met by great multitudes but maybe a pod or two of the scattered tribe that is the Thirteenth, that went forth onto the face of the waters, and art wet.
And though they didst not importune him to speak, wherefore they found that they could not still his purplish lips and his mumbling.
Hear you now, the words of the Prophet.
Blessed be the Prophet.
And at the brink of the depths, enrobed in the ebon cassock of his oceanic office, he raised his Claws in the easterly wind and through chattering jaws he began to intone.
Blessed art the warm waters. For they are the waters of ease and confidence.
Blessed art the calm waters. For they are the waters of exploration and freedom.
Blessed art the rough waters. For they are the waters of strength and growth.
Blessed art the cold waters. For they are the waters of the chosen few.
Blessed art the sharks and the jellyfish. For without them, the seas would be like onto boring swimming pools.
Blessed art the wind and Sun. For they giveth life to the waters that we may partake thereof of the differences every day and the Sea be not like unto that self-same boring swimming pool.
Blessed art the Backstrokers. For their stroke is elegant beyond compare – but they know not where they go.
Blessed art the Butterflyers. For they are swimmers who are trying to get away from water and are mightily confused.
Blessed art the Frontcrawlers. For they are as common as Common jellyfish and not special.
Blessed art the Breaststrokers. For their stroke is disruptive and ugly.
Blessed art the Freestylers. For they know not what they are and most will not even understand this blessing.
Blessed art the IMers. For their hubris shall not last more than some few hundred cubits.
Blessed art the cubits. For the world entire uses measurements of the hundreths, except the American tribe which uses the measurements of the kings. Therefore and henceforth and so on and so forth the Prophet urges reconciliation of all distances with the blessed cubit.
Blessed art the Combat Sidestrokers. For they think that ’tis a real stroke.
Blessed art the Granny Strokers. For sometimes they must needs swim with a towel wrapped around their venerable heads instead of a proper swim cap.
Blessed art the Sprinters. For they don’t actually like swimming and would be better off picking things up and putting them down again and looking at themselves do so in a room with mirrored walls.
Blessed art the Lane Swimmers. For all those impacts doth hurt their poor little noggins.
Blessed art the Age Groupers. For they will all become older and spake of when they wert young and quick. And the older they will get the faster they will have been.
Blessed art the Masters. For they plead how fast they could have been, had they but been age-groupers and not began as adult-onset swimmers.
Blessed art the Triathletes. For Swimmers are set over Triathletes, as triathletes have worn the most profane neoprene, that is The Skin of the Beast. But swimmers are still under all the others of the Peoples of the Sportsball Games.
Blessed are the Stroke Judges, Referees and Observers. For they needed something to do after their progeny ceased swim training and the parents were stuck with swimming because they had learned the rules by accident and no-one else was available that particular Saturday and before they knew what happened everyone else took their name off the availability list.
Blessed art the Lifeguards. For they must sit, and sit, and sit, and sit, and then walk around a little bit before sitting again and then taking a break after forty minutes. And they swim not.
Blessed art the Coaches. For whilst Loneswimmer ist only a lowly prophet, Coaches believe they art God. And are not.
Blessed art the Open Water Swimmers. For they art ugly and as dumb as the Common jellyfish.
Blessed art the Marathon Swimmers. For they art dumb and covered in grease most foul.
Blessed art the Cheesemakers. Or any manufacturers of dairy products. Obviously. For swimmers doth become famished and suffer all-consuming hunger and must be nourished of the cheese and the chocolate milk that art the product of the beasts of the field, in a window of time of a span thirty to sixty minutes after a swim with a weight of protein in a ratio commensurate with their body weight to facilitate muscle recovery.
Blessed is the hunger.
Go forth and swim my brethren.
Here endeth the sermon.