What terrifies people about dying is not death. We may be sad at the thought of the world going on without us, but it won’t bother us once we’re dead. What we fear is suffering, and loss of control. My generation has watched our parents die, and we have been dismayed with the slow decline and languishing end that is the lot of many Americans. Who can blame us as we breaststroke dreamily in the warm sunshine if we muse how pleasant it would be to die in a place of our choosing, where we feel at home and one with the world?

Over the years I have seen several elderly people pulled from the pond apparently unconscious or dead, and my guess is that this was the way they wanted to go. On one particularly memorable day there was a thunderstorm over the pond. I sat in the back of my van with the doors open, looking out at the pouring rain, punctuated by occasional flashes of lightening and rumbles of thunder. Through the deluge I watched a few unfazed swimmers, marked by their neon orange swim bags, steadily stroking their way through the water. No one rushed out to them in a rescue boat and dragged them from the water. No park employee got on the loudspeaker to demand that they swim immediately to shore. It was their choice to mingle with the elements, and no one questioned that right. I’ve never forgotten the sight of those intrepid swimmers making their way through the rain-slashed water. It was beautiful to me.