Matthew is six years old, when his mother comes in; very early one morning. It is too early for school time, yet she shakes him and tells him to get out of bed - today he will do something special. He struggles to think of what is special about today. It is just like any other day. His clothes from yesterday are still on the floor, so he picks them up and puts them back on.

Mother is in the laundry collecting towels. He follows her out, not questioning the towels or the early hour, it is Mother and she knows what is right. A mild anticipation is in his tummy as he hops into the car.

They are at the pool by 5.30am, and soon Matthew is swimming. Up and down, up and down. The whole length of the pool each time. He likes swimming, he learnt to swim last year and does not mind that he is here now. Gliding up and down the pool he thinks,

I am a fish, I am a fish like in a big goldfish bowl.

His mother sits on the seats nearby, holding his towel. She is watching him swim, a proud half-smile reaches her lips. Matthew’s arms are getting tired now. He has been swimming for half an hour, and it is now six o’clock. He knows this because Miss Wallace, his teacher, has told him all about time. He can see the big clock at the kiosk if he lifts his head. Still, he keeps swimming; because Mr Johnson, the man with the whistle has not said to stop yet.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the baby group in the shallow end with kickboards.

What babies, he thinks.

I did that last year. I’m much faster than them. If we had a race, I would be the winner.

The idea pleases him so much that he forgets his aching arms, and does not hear Mr Johnson’s whistle.

His mother has to lean over the edge of the pool, and wave in his face.

"It’s time to go".

Mr Johnson laughs, "Can’t keep him out of the water,eh? He’s a good boy. Strong."

Matthew’s mother smiles. "He’ll be good one day."

"We’ll make a champion of him", Mr Johnson promises.

Matthew knows he is right. He will be the fastest fish in the whole world. A flying fish even. The thought of it makes him laugh. Mother and Mr Johnson look down at him.

"You like that idea do you?" Mr Johnson nods to him. "You bring him tomorrow and we’ll get him training."

Mother nods her thanks. "Keep an eye on him. We’ll do something great with him."

Mr Johnson waves them both goodbye.

Fifteen minutes before the alarm goes off, Matthew always wakes up. This vaguely irritates him, although he does not exactly know why. He does not mind getting up at four-thirty. He would rather get straight up with the alarm, however. He sighs. He should be used to it now, after seven years.

The water is cold this morning; it is June, and the sun has not even come up. The heated pool is too crowded and he prefers to swim alone in the big pool. He must work hard this morning, because the state carnival is next week; and he is going to win. Even Mr Johnson thinks so. Mother knows so. She always has.

His body convulses slightly with a shiver. So cold this morning. As he glides his way through the laps, Matthew warms up a little and relaxes, letting his muscles work and his mind wander. He watches the lines on the pool bottom as they ripple underneath him, and idly wonders who paints them. He thinks about Miranda in his English class who thinks he’s a baby, because he won’t smoke cigarettes like the tough boys do. He has tried to explain about his swimming, and how if he smokes he won’t be able to fly. She thinks he is being a coward, and sits with Bill Lester at lunchtime now.

The lines on the bottom of the pool end, and he quickly tumble turns. He moves forward again, no longer a goldfish as he used to feel; but a dolphin leaping and gliding through the water at top speed. In the water he is free, he is in charge, he is the winner. It seems so much easier in the aquamarine universe.

Out on dry land he towels himself dry, and runs home. Mother doesn’t drive him anymore. He runs to the pool, because running is exercise, and therefore important when you are a champion. He eats through his high-in-carbohydrates breakfast, and rushes off to school.

It is 11am and Matthew has fallen asleep next to a tree in the playground. Miss Short finds him when he misses her maths class.

"Matthew?" She shakes him. "Matthew you should be in class."
He stares up at her blankly.

"Are you sick?", she asks.

He shakes his head.

"No? Well let’s go in."

He stands and follows her back to class. He can’t understand what all the fuss is about. School doesn’t seem that important to him. Winning is important. That doesn’t happen at school. Most of the kids don’t talk to him anyway. He is tired every day and doesn’ t want to run around. It seems like a waste of time to him.

Matthew tells his mother he is tired at school. She puts her knife down (she is peeling potatoes), and looks concerned.

"You will be alright next week won’t you?"

Matthew nods, yes.

Mother takes him to see Dr Parson. He prods and peers.

"Tired eh? Eating properly? Getting enough exercise?"

Matthew nods emphatically. "Lots of exercise."

"Lots eh? That’s good." Dr Parson turns to mother, "Perhaps a course of iron tablets. Seems pretty fit and healthy to me."

Mother smiles and nods. Of course he will be fine.

Every muscle in his body is tense and coiled, tight and taut. He can feel the sweat oozing out of his pores, slick and oily. The starter’s gun is poised, the explosion is loud, and he starts. His foot is caught on the starting block, and instead of flying, he is falling, down, down, awkwardly flailing for balance.

"No ." he croaks and strikes out with his arms again for balance. Matthew awakes in his bed. The moonlight is poking through his curtains and his sheets are in a sweaty ball at the end of the bed. It is 4.01am by his digital clock. In half an hour he will get up for training. It is one day before the race.

He breathes in and out slowly trying to calm his heart, which is still pounding a bit. This is the worst dream he has had this week. He cannot go back to sleep now. He lies awake and tries to chase the last oppressive shadow of the dream away. Tomorrow he will win. Matthew sees his mother’s face, proud and radiant, his father nodding quiet approval. The kids at school that he never gets to hang out with. They will look at him in awe, a champion. He lays still, his heart calmer and spirits soaring with the thrill of it; and his alarm goes off.

The big race day dawns clear and cool. Matthew is already in the car ready to go when mother comes down the steps.

"Ready?", she beams "That’s the way, think big."

At the starters block he flexes his legs, focuses on what he is going to do. He has retreated down inside himself, to the place that allows him to close everyone and everything out; in order to fly. Matthew takes his mark and waits for the gun.

He is in the air the second the gun goes off, and as he hits the water he feel a rush of more adrenaline than he has ever experienced. He soars out into the lead, strange images of goldfish leaping like dolphins in his head. The stench of chlorine is in every pore of his body, his lungs are full of water - but he is moving like a machine. He can see the painted lines ripple, as he breathes, holds, breathes, holds. Then the end of the length is in sight, the blessed concrete of absolution, and he realises he is home.

Matthew is flying, his soul is ten feet above the platform he stands on to receive his medal. He is released into a new feeling of freedom, the freedom of being the best, and he thinks; this is true being, this is how I learned to fly.