I'd give this five stars for former age-group swimmers (especially from Canada). If that's not you, your mileage will almost certainly vary, but given the forgiving nature of the memoir genre and Shapton's considerable talents as an artist, four stars seems reasonable. Calibrating for my perspective in this regard (I'm a swimmer), I'd say that this memoir reads well and occasionally transcends the audience I've just described, with fleeting moments of poignant insight into how our childhood shapes us, and our relationships sustain us. (I read this as an ebook, but that format doesn't do justice to how Shapton weaves her visual art into the narrative). At other points, however, Shapton misses the chance to speak beyond swimmers and convey, to interested outsiders, the strange obsession with water that afflicts so many of us in our varied swimming tribes. Will anyone ever inherit Charles Sprawson's mantle in writing about swimming?