My body, dormant for decades but never forgotten, woke up.

Fifty years ago, I wasn’t a billionaire. I was “The Torpedo,” a freestyle swimmer who took silver in Munich. I had spent half my life in the water, learning how to move, how to turn, how to explode with sudden, violent power. Muscle memory is a strange thing; it doesn’t care about wrinkles or gray hair. It waits.

I heard his sharp intake of breath. The signal.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Greg hissed, the pretense of love vanishing.

He lunged.

It was a clumsy, brute-force attack. He threw his entire body weight forward, arms extended, intending to shove me violently over the low rail and into the churning wake.

In the fraction of a second before his hands made contact, I moved.

I didn’t stumble. I didn’t shuffle. I pivoted. My left foot planted firmly, and I swung my body to the side with a fluidity that belonged to a man half my age. It was the same motion I used to use for a flip turn at the wall—compact, precise, explosive.