He was at the turnstile every morning dead on six in his well-cut business suit. He stripped in two minutes, walked under the shower, and emerged transformed.

He slid into the pool at the deep end, sleek as an otter. His body, nut-brown and hairless, contrasted with the yellow satin speedos as he cut through the water. He seemed to be part of the element, so effortless was his stroke. He reached the far end, flipped over without splashing, and resumed his rhythm without pause. 

I watched from the shallow end. Surely, he had to be a professional. He had the broad shoulders, the deep, oxygen-seizing chest, the casual co-ordination of arms and legs. We all, in and out of the water, froze in admiration at this sea-god among us who was offering us such spectacle. 

One Caribbean boy stood in awe at the shallow end as he watched the swimmer clocking up the lengths with such regularity – twenty, thirty, forty in no time. The boy was maybe ten years old, his loose trunks in Jamaican colours of red, green and gold. He was clearly getting agitated as he pulled at them at the front. He too had the build, as yet unformed, of a potential swimmer. 

He watched, hypnotised, as the man in the pool, having clocked up the required distance, pulled himself easily onto the side, and shook the water off. He took his towel from the bench and removed his matching bathing cap. His thick, glossy black hair seemed to arrange itself automatically into a perfect cut. He started to dry himself, patting his pecs. I couldn't help noticing his prominent purple nipples.

The boy still watched him. He dried under his smooth armpits, and between his legs. He fondly cupped his privates. It wasn't decent. I had to look away. 

He noticed the boy, stopped wiping himself, ambled casually towards him and squatted down to his eye level to talk to him. It reminded me of the way my Uncle George – not a real uncle, my mother's friend – squatted down to me, I could still smell the tobacco on his breath, feel the hairs on his chest.

The boy became animated, and held up his hand to feel the adult muscle; the man laughed and placed the child's hand on his bicep, flexing for him.

I'd seen enough. I went to the attendant, a youth on training with blackheads who spent most of his time ogling the teenage girls. I pointed out what was happening. The look on his face turned to horror, and he was pushing along the edge of the pool as I went to get changed. 

There was no sign of our sea-god, the next time I went swimming; nor of the devoted boy. The lifeguard youth, whose name was Mark it turned out, whispered to me as I passed, 'Thanks for telling me. We get a lot of that here.'

I stood on the diving board, ready to plunge in. It was a messy floppy splash and there was no pleasure in it. 

Peter Scott-Presland