There were a few things I hated as a kid. I used to hate my younger brother. I used to hate when dad made me spit out my gum before going to bed. And I really, truly hated swimming lessons.

It had nothing to do with getting into a swim suit or jumping into the lake. I hated lessons because I already knew how to swim. Bringing me to swimming lessons was like teaching Serena Williams how to hold a tennis racquet.

Going to the lake most week nights and every weekend, I just picked it up naturally. By the age of seven, I could have swam across an ocean if I needed to. Obviously the seven year old version of me was either overly confident or unaware of how much larger an ocean is than the local lake. Regardless, I was never the type to wear a life vest or water wings. I simply knew how to swim.

The untrusting parents they are, Mom and Dad went ahead and signed me up for swimming lessons anyway.­ Starting with Level 1, each week (no matter how chilly it was), the class would meet at the local beach to do kicks and practice strokes. We’d “bob” in and out of the water over 100 times per session until our ears rang so loud we couldn’t hear the lifeguard’s whistle. They called them swimming lessons. I called it a bunch of hooey, and I can’t believe Mom and Dad dished out cash for it.

Now that I think of it, the time I spent at that beach actually stunted my growth, for quick acceleration was not encouraged nor allowed. To prove my point, there was only one time in the several-week long session where we were permitted to go deeper than our bellies, and that was for the “final test” during the last lesson of Level 1.

And so, after weeks of bobbing and kicking and pretending to stroke, we had finally earned an attempt to actually swim. We were given only one chance to make it to the raft with no assistance. If you couldn’t do it, you had to repeat Level 1 next year.

Extremely excited, I knew I was capable of swimming to the raft and back at least five times with no help. However, that last lesson was the day when I could prove to the lifeguards, my parents and the rest of the class that I had fish in my blood.

After observing several classmates struggle to reach the raft, it was finally my turn. Alongside the instructor, I eagerly doggy-paddled my way out to the raft and back with no problem – or so I thought. Later, I learned that the lifeguard had reached out to help me when it looked like I was struggling, so they recommended I repeat the Level 1 swim class.

Repeat? Completely re-do it!? There was no way I was going to go back to kicking water and continuously dunking myself every week. I begged Mom to excuse me from taking any more of those stupid “swimming” lessons. Thankfully, she agreed.

Since then, I’ve become sort of a swimming ‘hustler.’ I’ll bet people I can beat them to rafts, boats or anything else floating around the lake. I race my dogs to their dummies and confuse them when I reach it first. I’ve even had the opportunity to compete in the swimming portion of a few triathlons. Sometimes I’ll scrounge up a family member to swim across the bay with me. I still need to work on catching up to the sailboat when?I get tossed overboard, but I have a hunch that’s something they don’t teach – or encourage – in swimming lessons.

Shootin’ the Wit is a weekly column about everyday life that should never, ever be taken too seriously.