Every summer since before I was even a young Schrute, my family has dug out an area in the Northwest fields to use as a swimming hole. We fill it with water and a variety of unmarketable beets (to use as flotation devices) and then all of the Schrute children are allowed to visit the pool once a week. Swimming in Schrute Hole is purely for instructional purposes. Since the loss of poor Great Cousin Cordula to a horrific drowning accident in Lake Wallenpaupack back in the early Sixties, it is a family requirement that all Schrute children learn how to swim. Unfortunately for me, I hate swimming.

My swimming lessons were simultaneously extensive and short-lived. I was eight years old, which is the age all Schrutes begin their aqua-training. From the very moment I was thrown into the center of the swimming hole, I knew that I was not meant to be a swimmer. As with all things for Schrute children, however, I had no choice in the matter. My father took on the role of swim instructor and began teaching me. I hated every second of it except for the fact that it was the first occasion I had ever spent time alone with Father.