On the morning before he was to report to the pool, Attis Clopton sat in a storefront breakfast spot near his Brooklyn apartment munching a glazed doughnut. He was worrying. It was a glorious day, blue sky and hot. The kind when they say the only sensible place to be is in the water.

But, please, let’s not go there.

As he imagined what lay ahead, his hands got clammy. He needed to think about something else — anything else.

Anything but water.

The next morning, he was starting swimming lessons. Such an ordinary thing — learning to swim. Preschoolers do it every day. This was different. He was 33 years old, a professional drummer. And he was deathly afraid of water. Sure, he would drag himself to the beach occasionally with his friends. He would wallow on a towel, self-appointed custodian of sunscreen and snacks. He would look at the water. If egged on, he would slog in, maybe up to his shins.

“Anytime I get even to knee level, I freak out,” he said. “Just talking about it, I get shaky. It took me years just to put my head under the shower head. I’m still not gung-ho about it. You know how people put their face up to the nozzle? I just take water in my hands and splash my face a bit.”