Our Authoress

            “Excuse me, but do you know any girls ages 7-9?” She’s been staring at me from corner of the locker room for several minutes as I was getting dressed, her pale eyes peering over her Covid mask. I had seen her before in the pool, here at Kennedy and also at The Plunge, but she wasn’t someone who had stuck in my mind.

            We’d never spoken before.

            She’s holding out to me one of those plastic square baskets that usually hold pencils, crayons, pads of paper and such for kids. In it sits a slim white book with an aqua and purple mermaid on the cover.

            Before I can answer her, she begins her spiel. “I’ve written this book. It is for girls ages 7-9 and it teaches them how to expand their vocabulary and reading skills.” She reaches into the basket and pulls out the book, holding it up for me to admire.

            I grin behind my mask. (Can people tell? This is another limitation of the ongoing COVID plague---communication is so mired behind masks—both clarity wise and expression wise.)  “Wow, that’s really cool,” I tell her now. “I don’t think I know any girls that age. The girls I know are a little older, like in the 10- or 11-year-old range. I teach piano and....”

            “You do?” She nods, low key and intense. There’s something about her that borders on the unstable.

            Writers. What’re ya gonna do?

            “Yes,” I continue, people seem to always be impressed when I mention I teach piano. “But because of COVID, the lessons have dried up.” She nods, sympathetic. “And the girls are older now.... Who is your publisher?” I ask. Why do I ask her this? I don’t tell her that I’m a writer too. But this is in the back of my mind. If she found a publisher for her Mermaid Book, maybe she knows about publishing.

            “It’s self-published,” she murmurs. And I think, of course. Not that there’s anything wrong with self-publishing. In fact, it’s something that a lot of established authors are doing nowadays. And even before it became easier, authors like Sandra Cisneros self-published her classic, House on Mango Street.

            She puts the book back in its little basket, eyeing me sadly for a moment, before moving on to the next woman in the locker room: “Excuse me, do you know any girls ages 7-9?”

            Lime green sweatered woman beams, “Actually, yes I do....”

            And a transaction is made. Success!

            Alice sits on the bench, valiantly trying to pull on her pants before the 12:15 get out of here ladies shout from the lifeguard. She turns now and grins at me, sans mask: “Sally! She’s Our Authoress” she proclaims, laughing heartedly.

            All the women join in. It’s the day before Christmas and everyone is in a festive mood. Time to celebrate.

            Sally smiles. I can tell even behind her mask. It’s her honor and privilege to be the Pool Authoress.

            I wish I knew some girls 7-9 to give her book to. Part of me thinks of lying. Going over to her and saying, “You know, I forgot. I do know a little girl who is 7 and she would just love to read your book!”

            “LADIES!!! TIME TO LEAVE!” The lifeguard hollers at us from the hallway.

            “We’re going as fast as we can!” Alice shouts back, and again, laughing heartily. It’s all a big party.

            I gather up the last of my stuff, swim mask, cap, suit, towel, lock and cram it into my bag. “Bye ladies!” I call out. “Everyone have a Happy Christmas!”

            “Merry Christmas to you, Carol!” Alice hollers after me, her laugher following me out into the hall.

                  

                             

            

Reverie

 

“Do you know Eileen?” Maud has been staring at me while I’m getting ready for the pool. The locker room here at Kennedy is quiet for the moment. It’s just the two of us. I have no clue who she’s talking about and tell her so.

            “Nope, don’t know any Eileen. But this isn’t where I usually swim until after the Pandemic. I swam up at the Hilltop Y.”

     “Oh!” She’s sitting on the narrow bench in the corner, her brightly colored mask barely muffling her speech. In mid undress, her enormous white breasts hang in full glory. I can’t help but stare. What would it be like to carry around such appendages?

            I get back to the conversation, “They closed that pool up at Hilltop.”

            “Did they?”

            “Yup....”

            “I swam there once and had such a frightening experience!” she proclaimed, pulling on her avocado green swim shirt, the enormous breasts now encased.

            “What happened?”

            “This woman....oh, it was horrible!” she pauses for drama or to put on her swim shoes.

“I was swimming along and you know how you can get into a Reverie.....”

            I honestly don’t, but I do see how some swimmers are in their own dreamy worlds. I just nod in agreement.

            “....and so, I was swimming along and my arm went under the lane line into the next lane, barely touching this woman. And she just stood up and hauled off screaming at me!”

    

    Maud shudders at the recollection. I wonder when this was. Maybe the woman was me. Lord knows I’ve screamed at plenty of clueless swimmers while at the Y. I don’t recall screaming at Maud. I think I’d remember her.

            But maybe not.

            I don’t tell her that I used to scream at Reverie Swimmers. I mean, I get it. Swimming can be a dreamy meditative experience for some, but hell, you have to pay attention. You’re not the only one in the pool. Esp. at the Y.

            “I never went back there!” Maud shakes her head, slinging her lime pool bag over her shoulder. “I was so upset!”

            “That’s too bad,” I tell her, but think, gosh good thing she didn’t go back. Her and her Reverie!

            “OH! I am so HAPPY to be here!” she proclaims, waddling out of the locker room.

            I agree with her, waiting a moment to follow. I still keep the 6-foot Covid distance. Or try to. At least on land.

            In the pool is another matter. Esp. if the swimmer next to you is in her own Reverie.

           

 I hum Robert Schumann’s version as I march out to the Natatorium. I am SO happy to be here! And, as I walk out onto the deck to survey the scene, I spy Maud, happily walking in the shallow end, chatting a mile a minute to another woman.

            I pick a lane far away. Grinning as I pull on my cap and mask. A woman stoops near me to pick up her pale pink sandals. “I’m grabbing your lane,” I tell her.

            “Good timing,” she smiles, her mask still in her dripping hands.

            I hop in. Feel the chill of the water and then dive under the surface. It is a dream today. Maybe I do experience a reverie sometimes?

            At least today, I do....

 Tiffany Poon Plays Reverie

The Pink Towel

“Ugh! Wretched Wind!” I slam the car door, plopping down on the passenger seat of Ian’s car, throwing my swim bag on the floor in front of me. 

“Yeah, it’s more than a little breezy,” Ian comments, master of understatement. 

“You think?” as I pick up my water bottle that has fallen out of the tossed bag. Sighing, I think to myself how much the wind bugs me. It makes my hair wrong—all staticky and sticklike. It makes my skin wrong---all dry and prickly. But most of all it makes my brain wrong. I just feel like screaming! I refrain. 

 “Maybe they’ll close the big doors at the pool to keep the wind out,” Ian offers. 

 “No way,” I shake my head. 

Ever since COVID, the pools have to keep all the doors and windows open for ventilation. So, even though we’re indoors, it can often feel like we’re outside, the wind gusting into the natatorium and whistling lustily over the pool’s surface. 

And, sure enough, after arriving at the pool with only 57 minutes left to swim, I note the doors wide open. The air is cold and brisk, esp. when clad in only a swimsuit. I spot lane 4 open and hurry to plop my fins, kickboard and pull buoy on the deck in front of the lane to claim it. I’ve got my hot pink towel wrapped around my shoulders---a futile effort to stave off the cold. As I bend down to set my water bottle down, a huge gale of wind comes whipping in through the open doors and before I can stop it, my towel is off my shoulders and floating over the pool.

 

Hot pink floats over the turquoise water for a split second, and then, down down down it drops. In horror, I watch it land on the surface of the water and float for only a moment before quickly soaking up the water and sinking to the bottom of the pool. There is something almost ethereal about it. The way it had floated over the pool, hanging there like a fuchsia magic carpet, in slow motion, before swoosh! Down it sank, gravity pulling it inextricably under the water. 

 There’s nothing I can do. 

Jose, the overly friendly lifeguard saw the whole thing happen. He comes running over to me, “WOW! Carol, I’m so sorry! Man....” He runs and closes the door. A little late now, but I appreciate the sentiment. 

 Beautiful Super Swimmer woman dives under the lane, “I’ll get it,” she calls out, reaching down to grab the pink mass. “It’s heavy!” she exclaims, heaving it out of the water and handing it over. 

 “Thank you!” I tell her, taking the towel from her, its heft a mighty soaking log of fuchsia. 

Now what? I try to wring it out, but it’s so full of water I just lay it over the metal bench. How the hell am I gonna dry off after my swim? I mean if it were summer, I could maybe get away with the paper towel approach. Last summer at the Plunge I’d forgotten my towel one day. I’d just shrugged it off. It was warm and I had my red sweatshirt that I didn’t really need on top of my long-sleeved shirt. I’d just used it to dry off, even wrapping my hair up in a crooked red turban before walking out into the mild July day. But today? I needed the sweatshirt to wear over my shirt. It was cold. And, using it for a towel just didn’t seem like a plan. 

I couldn’t worry about it all now. The clock was ticking. Only 53 minutes now. I’d just have to swim and worry about how to get dry later. 

 Did it even occur to me not to swim? 

 Hell no! 

 Liv was in the lane next to me; she’d stopped to watch the Pink Towel show. “Did you see that?” I asked her.

“Oh, yes,” she nodded, her yellow snorkel bobbing up and down.

 “I don’t know how I’m going to dry off.” 

 “Can’t you call your towel delivery service?” 

 “Uh?” 

 “You know.... your partner....” 

 “Oh, Ian? Yeah, well, no....he’s actually here with me.” 

 “Ah....” 

 “It’s okay. I’ll figure something out.” 

 She nods, then takes off down the lane. 

I dive under, swimming hard to make up for all the time lost in the towel escapade. I’ve swum a few laps when Ian shows up. He sits on the edge of the pool. Starting to put on his fins. 

“Did you see my towel?” I point to the bright pink wet mass on the bench. 

 “No, what happened?” 

 “The stupid wind blew it off my shoulders and into the pool!” 

 “Oh, no!” He sits there for a moment and then lights up. “I have an extra towel.” 

 “You do?”

 “Yeah, but it’s in the car.”

 “Go get it, Ian!” I command.

 “But....” He points to his one foot, fin on.

“You can just run out and get it now,” I say. “Wouldn’t that be better than going after your swim when you’re all wet?” 

 He pauses for a moment, then gathers up his stuff. “You’re right. I’ll just go get it now.” 

 And off he goes, lugging his big red swim bag with him back into the locker room to get dressed again for the trek out to the car. 

 The car isn’t far. Parked just right in front of the building. I almost think he could just put his fins on and trot out there, but I don’t suggest this. Instead, I let him go, and dive back under the water, doubling my efforts to get my yards in. 

 A few laps later, he’s back. The brightly colored old beach towel from our summers at Keller in his hands. He’s grinning as he shows me the towel, placing it on top of my Bookish Cats swim bag. I watch as he picks up the sopping Pink Towel and begins to wring it out. He used to always wring all of my swim shirts and pants for me in Hawaii, too. He likes wringing, I think. Or it just gives him a sense of purpose. He likes helping me. And today is no exception. 

What would I do without him? I just so appreciate him. I mean, who else would get off the deck, get dressed again, and tromp out to the car for me? No one. He sits on the deck now, putting on his fins for a second time. “THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! Ian! You are my hero!”

 I give him a big wet hug. He grins a happy smile. We dive under the water together, kicking with our fins. I’m out in front of him now, but my heart is full. I can swim now with the knowledge that I can dry off. The pink towel gave me a scare. But Ian saved the day!

They're Closed! AGAIN????

 

“They’re closed.”

I’m sitting on the steps of the Richmond Plunge fuming as a large middle-aged white guy continues walking toward me. He’s donned a Covered California black mask and is rummaging through his swim bag. Looking for.... money? .... Vaccination Card?.... Brain?

            “They ARE CLOSED!” I holler at him again.

            This time he hears me, stops. At the requisite 6 feet social distance. I don’t have my mask on. I’m too mad to care.

            “Why?” he asks.

            “Staff illness.”

            He shakes his head, “Damn....” he sighs. “I’ve been burned at this place before.”

            “You come here regularly?”

            “I used to, but then with COVID, I got out of the habit. But now, I’m trying to get back in the swing of things.”

            “Yeah, well, no swing today,” I mutter.

            He chuckles. “Nope, guess no endorphins today.”

            I smile, “Exactly!”

            “I used to cycle, but then I had to give that up because I have....” He mutters something behind his mask that I can’t understand. I’m so sick of not understanding people cuz of the goddamn masks. Can’t they invent masks with built-in microphones so we can hear?

            “......and my doc said if I fell, I’d have to go in for a brain scan or if there’s any blood loss well then, I’d be dead within minutes.”

            Did he really say this? Is he a hemophiliac? I remember there was a hemophiliac at the Oakland Y who was always given his own lane. If anyone had kicked him or if he ran into anyone and bled, he’d be a goner. I always wondered if this were true. I mean, was he really a hemophiliac? Isn’t that pretty rare? And only for royalty?

            This guy looks healthy and sturdy. Hardly a hemophiliac type if there is a type. I imagine they would be skeletal and pale, with blue veins popping up on their arms and legs ready to burst.

            But I don’t ask this Sturdy Guy if he’s a hemophiliac; I just nod and tell him about how bikes are dangerous. My brother-in-law fell off his and broke his hip.

            “Yeah, you can’t do that in the pool,” he laughs.

            I’m still mad, though, because the pool is randomly closed even though this guy is distracting me. He doesn’t seem mad at all. Why is that? Do some people just not have the same NEED for swimming that I do? And, if so, how can I be more like them? The Plunge is so unreliable. Last week, Ian and I couldn’t even get in because it was so crowded. Fortunately, I had a premonition that this would happen and had brought my wetsuit. So, we went to the beach.

            But today? I didn’t have any premonition.

            I rise off the steps and start to walk toward my car. Sturdy Man turns to walk with me. We come upon V.  and a friend of hers, deep in Pool Closed Complaining Mode. “Hey V,” I interrupt.

            “Hi Cj, the pool is closed.”

            “Yeah, I know, it sucks.”

            “K and I have just been complaining about it for 10 minutes. I don’t understand why they couldn’t send out an email warning us of the closure. It’s like they don’t respect us lap swimmers.”

            Sturdy Man is lurking behind the group, but I can tell he’s agreeing. We all are mad. It’s such a waste of our time, money, and energy. And V is right. There seems to be a lackadaisical disregard for swimmers at the Richmond Pools.  I get it that there are staffing issues, but if they have time to put a sign on the door, don’t they have time to send out an email letting us know?

            “Yeah,” I agree with V now, “I even looked at my email this morning. Nothing.”

            “I just think they need a better system,” V continues. “They don’t respect us swimmers!” she repeats. I watch her chocolate chest heave up and down. She’s mad too. Well, at least I’m not the only one!

            Sturdy Swimmer Man takes off, waving goodbye. I stand for a moment, listening to V tell another story about how she couldn’t get in the other day even though she was on the waiting list. They just forgot her!

            “I think that was the day you went to the beach, Cj,” she said.

            “Oh, yeah, that’s right. Did you end up getting in?”

            “Yeah, but not till 12:25.”

            “So, you got in about 30 minutes? That’s better than nothing”

            She nods, “Yes, it’s better than nothing, but still I could have swum with my friend D. We know each other and feel comfortable with each other and I could have shared a lane with her but they forgot me!”

            Is she ready to cry? I don’t think so, really, but it’s horrible to be forgotten. Esp. if it’s to swim!

Weeping Woman, Rembrandt

            I give her my condolences, turning now to head back to the car. “Enjoy your day....” I say. “If it’s possible without a swim!”

            “I just think they don’t respect us. I think they could have sent out an email!” V repeats.

I nod, sighing, heading across the street, trying to rein in my anger and frustration before getting in the car and driving home.

            A truck loaded with junk almost hits me as I cross the street. I barely notice as I beep the car open and heave my unused swim bag into the back. Sitting inside the car, I stare out at the green park with dogs playing fetch and people standing around chatting. They all seem happy as can be.

            Maybe I should get a dog, I think, as I start the car and back out of my space.

 

Stick Castle

 

“What’s that you’re building?” I’ve just gotten out of the water and Keller Beach is hopping! Radios blasting Motown, buff boys playing bean bag target practice, and a little girl, sitting with her mom right behind us, balancing a stick in the sand.

            She’s very serious. It is a work of art. Ian chimes in, “It’s a stick tower.”

            Mom chuckles, “A stick fortress”?

            The little girl stares at us all for a moment, then gazes seriously at her stick before announcing “Stick Castle”.

            We all laugh, “Of course,” I say.

            Mom nods, “She knows it!”

            And she does, going back to her balancing of the stick in the sand, carefully bending the top of the stick this way and that to get just the right effect. The stick is maybe 2 feet tall and seemingly nothing special. But she sees something the rest of us don’t.

            A Castle.

            I remember the sandcastles I and my sisters constructed on the shores of Huntington Beach. We’d fill our brightly colored plastic buckets--lime, tangerine, aqua-- full of water and sand, then drain the water out and pack the sand in tight. When it was just right, we’d turn the buckets upside down and create a mound of sand for the castle. We’d continue this process until we had a healthy number of towers, and then we’d create a moat around our castle, letting the sea whoosh in and out of its circular confines.

            There is nothing like being a kid at the beach. And, today, at Keller was no exception.

            “Have you been in the water?” I ask Stick Castle Architect.

            She shakes her head. “My boys already in the water,” Mom announces pointing toward the shore, “but she don’t wanna go in. Last time we brought the boogie boards, the blow-up dolphin. She don’t want none of it. The dolphin, it just sat here on the beach, sunbathing.” She gives a boisterous guffaw.

            I smile, “It’s a beautiful day. The water is warm,” I encourage Stick Castle Girl.

            She stares up at me for a moment, still holding the stick in place, before going back to her castle project.

            Mom is on the phone, “We down here at Keller........ Yeah, you should come down....... No, I don’t care what they say.....there still Corona.....”

            I’m lying in the sun now, covered in towels, thinking about this new day of “Californian is Open”. Of course, I’m happy to not be wearing a mask today. But on the other hand, I have some anxiety over Governor Newsom just announcing several weeks ago that June 15^th would be the day that everything could go back to normal. No more masks. No more social distancing. No more worry.

            Yet....how is this possible? Even with 70% of Californians vaccinated, that leaves 30% who aren’t. The virus is still here. Won’t it just attack this 30%? Or will the 70% keep enough of a barrier so that the 30% will be protected?

            I don’t know. I’m not a scientist. I’m assuming that Newsom has the data. He is always on TV with his pie charts and his experts. They must have all decided that June 15 would be the day for some reason.

            And yet...what of Stick Castle Girl? She can’t possibly be vaccinated. She’s so little. Maybe 4? I know that kids this young won’t have any vaccine till who knows when.  I am relieved that Mom seems aware of the danger. Is keeping her daughter safe.

            But how? The beach is crowded. The kids are running around, laughing and playing as kids do. Even Stick Castle Girl is off down to the water now, running with her brothers. Having a blast.

            And she should. You’re only a kid once. The Beach is the best. A time to run, swim, play and build.

            “You ready to head out?” Ian asks, starting to back up his chair, umbrella, swim gear.

            “Sure.” I’m sitting up now, watching Castle Girl as she comes racing back from the water, a grin so wide that it’s contagious.

            “How’s the water?” I ask her.

            “Good,” she exclaims, before plopping on the blanket next to mom and resuming her work on her castle. 

            

What's the Big Deal?????

The Dream

 

The pool is long and narrow and outdoors, surrounded by a dense forest of redwoods. As I wade into the murky water, I try to keep my distance from the crowds of swimmers and families. No one is wearing a mask. Everyone is pell-mell in the shallow water, laughing, splashing, roughhousing. I feel panicked. I need to get away from these crowds so I can swim. I try to swim through the crowd, but come close to touching people several times. My anxiety builds. Then, I’m out past them and swimming in the long thin pool with the redwoods looming around me. 

The water is shallow and as I swim it becomes shallower and shallower until I’m trying to swim on the grass. This is a common motif in my dreams and even as I dream it I’m aware that it is. So, I turn around and head back toward the crowds where the water slowly appears and I can swim most of the time without hitting the bottom with my hands. Yet as I get closer to the edge of the pool, I have to slow down. It’s just too crowded. I stand and walk, coming up behind a large grey tortoise swimming ahead of me. I am astounded. As I follow the beautiful swimming beast, I see that it is on a leash being pulled by a tall middle-aged man with white hair. Is the tortoise his pet? I walk up closer to the tortoise, smiling and waving at it. It just keeps swimming, busy with its ancient rite of movement through the water.

I hail the man, “Hey! Is this your tortoise?”

He turns and glares at me. “Yes.”

“Cool! What’s his name?”

“It’s a HER. And HER name is Mryna Loy!” he harrumphs.

Myrna Loy the tortoise. I am delighted. As I come up next to her, I give her a nod, “Nice to meet you, Myrna Loy.” She turns her head, her beady eyes ancient and wise—gazes at me for a moment, before the man pulls her toward him. She doesn’t protest or resist, but placidly swims on, heedless of me or any of the other swimmers and families that are now crowding my passage again.

 

            

The Letter

“Ohhhh MY.....GAWD!!!!” I can’t help but exclaim to myself. I’m sitting at the computer, staring at my swimmer’s schedule for Flex Reg on the Richmond City Website. Blurry grey and white boxes swim on the screen, but as I stare at them, my focus sharpens. Yup, here it is in black and blue:

Sunday, May 30^th, Richmond Swim Center:

12:00 p.m. to 12:40 pm: Carol Jameson

12:00 p.m. to 12:40 pm: Ian Lambton

 

I had reserved a lane for both of us! It was their mistake! Part of me is in disbelief. I was so sure, 2 hours earlier, that I had made a mistake. After all, computer systems don’t make mistakes, right? But here it is, both of our names for the time I reserved. What had happened? Now, I was even more livid than before, on the one hand; but on the other hand, I was relieved that I hadn’t blown it. Yet...it was wrong, right? The lifeguard, esp. now that I know I had reserved two lanes, should have let us both swim. He should have given us the benefit of the doubt. The mistake was made. By whom, I don’t know. But I was gonna find out.

            I opened a WORD doc and dashed off an email to Linda.

From: Carol Jameson [mailto:cjameson.jameson@gmail.com]
Sent: Sunday, May 30, 2021 2:15 PM
To: Linda Kennedy-Plunge
Subject: Not allowed to swim at Kennedy on Sunday, May 30th--even though we had paid for 2 people

 

Hi Linda,

 

I've just had a very upsetting experience at Kennedy HS pool today, Sunday, May 30th. The roster showed that I hadn't signed up for the swim today, at noon. I had, in fact, signed up for both myself and my partner, Ian Lambton, for today. I will attach a copy of the schedule for you.

 

The manager wouldn't give us the benefit of the doubt that it may have been a mistake on the system's end. I acknowledged that it could have been my mistake and I only signed up one of us (Ian Lambton), but I was pretty sure that I had paid for both of us. However, I was willing to concede that perhaps I made a mistake. The system is, after all, complicated. I could have goofed.  But...could he give us the benefit of the doubt and let both of us swim?

 

He wouldn't budge. He said that we'd be getting a 'free swim' --even though it turns out that I had paid. (Now that I'm at home and have the schedule in front of me--next time, I'll bring a printout—it certainly looks to me like both of us were signed up for today. Both of our names are listed on this date, May 30^th, for this time, Noon-12:40 pm.)

 

However, this ‘manager’ was only concerned about his 'reputation' and didn't care about us at all. What happened to giving the customer the benefit of the doubt? And if I had made a mistake (which it turned out, I hadn't) what would have been the big deal about letting us share a lane? Ian had his feet in the WATER and this manager wouldn't let him in. The young woman who checked us in and the other lifeguard, another young man, were willing to let us both swim.

 

I’m not sure what can be done now other than crediting me for a swim (or 10 swims!), but I thought you should know that this happened. I get that mistakes are made, but the inflexibility around the ‘rules’ was frankly ridiculous. The lifeguards need to be able to make ‘judgment’ calls around situations like this. If they can’t, they shouldn’t be in

charge.

 

I think that there should be some training with your managers/lifeguards about this possibility. Whether it’s an error in the computer system or human error, the goodwill that could have been nurtured here by letting us both swim, was instead, shot to hell.

 

 

Sincerely,

 

Carol Jameson

 

P.S. I did not get this manager’s name, but I’m sure he’s on your schedule for Kennedy on Sundays. He has dark curly hair, wears glasses and is very ‘by- the- book’---which is maybe what you want? 

 

After I wrote the above missive, I felt a huge release. Writing as therapy. It works! I wasn’t sure if the letter would even get a response, but getting the anger out of my body and onto the page was such a release.

            What swimming is supposed to be for me!

            Hungry and tired, I snapped the computer shut, and headed into the kitchen to make my usual tortilla, spinach, and cheese.

Yet...it was so strange, right? What had happened? How did they show that I wasn’t on the roster? Frankly, even though I was, this was irrelevant. Mistakes get made. I don’t care whose fault it is. The benefit of the doubt and use of judgment should have prevailed today.

Tomorrow was a holiday. I wouldn’t hear from Linda. I finished my tortilla and turned off The Young and the Restless. I was exhausted. Fury can do that, right?

Stumbling into the bedroom, I lay down on the big bed. Clara hopped up beside and curled into a ball. Closing my eyes, darkness took over. I breathed deeply once....twice....thrice....and I was out.....

 

           

 

 Feet in the Water

    by 

Ian Lambton

My feet were already in the water.

And yes, it was pleasant to be at the Kennedy High School swim pool again, with the light cascading through the glass roof stretching dome-like over the four or five massive wooden beams that arch overhead. After a year of pandemic shutdown the pools are finally beginning to open again, although restricted by the clipboard of cautiously bureaucratic rules.

Such as:  

·         Must wear mask (Covid mask, not swim mask) till last minute before entering water;

·         Mask must be kept in plastic bag ready for the moment you get out;

·         No use of changing rooms or restrooms (leading to the unpleasant challenge of driving home wearing wet swim gear, a different wetness danger not involving lifeguards;

·         And of course one person per lane, and must be signed up and paid for through the website ahead of time;

·         Forty minutes maximum, enough for the casual but not enough for the serious swimmers who must rush to squeeze in their swim routine;

·         All rules regimented with whistles and Covid Protocols, and supervised by lifeguards, and the PDM in charge (Personal Distance Monitor).

But… the pool was open. And heated. Much warmer than swimming outdoors in the San Francisco Bay. This had been an adventure, previously considered prohibitively cold, prior to the pandemic. But then for the last year, it had become the only option for desperate swimmers. Driven to leaping like lemmings? Certainly, it was risking hyperthermia, if not sharks, to brave the challenge of a few summer-month-only swims. But now at last, we were back to the luxury of a calm, heated pool – swim bliss.

“Sorry, but you can’t share a lane.” It was the PDM looming over me.

“What? Oh, yeah,” I began to explain. “It’s okay, we’re both signed up, but it seems there was some glitch in the sign-up system. But it’s okay, we can just share a lane,” I said, being Mister Reasonable. “We’re both vaccinated and we’re a couple,” I added, assuming this helped with the lane- sharing common sense, and ready to jump in and enjoy la agua encantadora. “The check-in girl at the desk said to ask the lifeguard and the lifeguard said it was no problemo.”

“No. Sorry. Sharing lanes is not permitted. That would be like getting a free swim.”

“Oh, we can pay the seven bucks, if that’s what the issue is.”

“No. That won’t work because it has to go through the website.”

Carol, my better half and the much more serious swimmer, having already done her first lap was suddenly there, interrupting her every-moment-counts routine. “Wait a minute… this is ridiculous…” she began. As she argued her point I saw that this might get nasty. You do not want to upset Carol, it’s just never worth it. If the young man got bitten, too bad, that was his problem. My problem was that once she gets upset it takes forever for her to regain her equilibrium, one reason why being in the water is so important to maintain the magic, that floating sense of balance. Not that I could explain this to the PDM’s officious effort. I just hoped he saw the obvious, so she could swim without the ripples of frustration, and allowing me to complete my poised plunge.

“I understand your frustration, Ma’am, but…”

”Yes, but surely…”

“No. Sorry, but…”

“Yes but…why not...”

“No. Sorry, but…”

It was like watching ping-pong. Back and forth, her common sense “gimme-a-break” insistence versus the polite but inflexible allocation of regulations. He even said that bending the rules would harm his reputation. The problem was that they had my name on their clipboard list, but that hers was missing, even though she had been the one to sign us both up and pay the fees.

Meanwhile, there was the lure of the water, the ability to have aches and pains and frustrations immediately float away in the moment of submerging. The comforting buoyancy of lovely warm water – there it was, lapping around my feet.

“Okay, okay,” I said, “let her swim, she’s the real swimmer.” Reluctantly I began to climb out.

In these pandemic times I had been essentially forced into early retirement, something I should have welcomed had it been my choice.  But too many things were happening by default, it seemed. I gathered up my swim gear with a sigh, shrugged, and lumbered out to wait in the car. At least I had a good book to read, East of Eden, the John Steinbeck epic.

I do like a swim now and then but luckily I can live without it. But this incident of lap swim deprivation was, as they say, a story with legs – it was gonna go places. I had lost a swim, but at least I had gotten a toe in the water.

What next? Read Carol's version: 

                                      The Tease....

“Do you want to know how It happened?” I’ve got the manager of the Richmond Pools on the line.

“Sure! I’d love to!”

“Well....it all started......

 

24 Hours Earlier

“Hi, how ya doin'?” I greet the young woman checking in the line of swimmers for our Kennedy High School lap swim. During COVID, it’s a process. We have to sign up ahead of time over the ‘system’; we have to pay ahead of time on this system; then we have a lane reserved for us based on our signup. 

When we get to the pool, we all line up outside on the blue tape on the sidewalk that has us socially distanced. We have to wear our masks even though we’re outside, making sure we have our plastic baggie to put our masks in once we’re in the pool.  We give our names to the lifeguard who has our reservations on a clipboard. She asks us if we have had any Covid symptoms or been around anyone that has Covid. Then she gives us our lane number and we’re good to go.

Except for today, this didn’t happen. I give her my name and Ian’s for her to check off and then....

“Uh....it looks like we don’t have you on the list....” Her voice trails off as she continues to stare at her clipboard.

“Really?” I ask. This has never happened before. I am dumbfounded.

“Yes, we have Ian on the list, but not you....”

“Well, I suppose I could have made a mistake....” I think to myself how this is very possible. I sign up for 10 swims in 20 minutes on the reservation system, which is convoluted and tricky. I made the reservations weeks ago. It’s entirely possible that I blew it. But yet.... we’re here. Ready to go.

“Yeah....” She shrugs, not sure what to do with us.

Ian gallantly steps up. “Just let her swim. It’s more important to her. I can go without.”

“Well...” She nods, still unsure.

“Or, can’t we share a lane?” I ask. “I mean, we’re in the same pod.”

“I guess that would be okay....” she murmurs. “Ian is in Lane 8.”

“Great!” I say. “We’ll just share lane 8. Thanks.”

We march in, already I’m rushing to beat the clock. With only a 40-minute window to swim, by the time we get checked in, put our caps and goggles on, plug up the ears, and make our way to the deck, it’s been 2 minutes. I usually get in 38 minutes.  I've never gotten the full 40 minutes. Yet, I’m so happy to be swimming indoors, out of the dive tank, in a warm pool.

As I jump into the pool today, the clock has already ticked 3 minutes. Damn! I need to swim fast to make my mile. Ian’s lagging behind me, not nearly as rigid about the time or the amount he swims. I swim a couple of laps and then notice that he’s still sitting at the edge of the pool, his feet in the water covered in his red fins, holding his mask in his lap. One of the lifeguards is squatting next to him, talking.

What the hell is going on? I wonder.

I stop. “Hey, is there a problem?”

The Lifeguard stares down at me, his beady brown eyes serious behind the gold-rimmed glasses. “We can’t let him swim,” he says.

“What!? Why not?”

“Only one of you paid for the swim, so that means you’d be getting a free swim.”

“I can pay you for the swim,” Ian offers.

“No, that won’t work. You have to pay through the system.”

“Okay, well,” I try, “what if just email Linda (I throw around his boss’ name, hoping to make some headway) and let her know what happened and we can figure it out later.” I glance over at the clock. Already 11 minutes of precious swim time have gone by. “And you can just let us swim for today, okay?”

“I am afraid I can’t do that,” he commands. “You’d be getting a free swim,” he repeats. “I know it’s frustrating. You are here and want to swim, but since you didn’t register ahead of time, there’s no way for me to collect any money from you. And, I have my reputation to consider. I’ve been here a long time and I have two other staff here that would see what’s going on and I can’t let that happen.”

I bang the top of the water with my fists, infuriated. “I won’t tell anyone! Just give us a break today, okay? It’s a Sunday afternoon. There’s room for us to both swim here. The young woman who checked us in said it’d be okay....”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t let him swim. It’s against the rules.”

“OH MY GOD!!!!” I scream. “I’m a regular swimmer here. I will contact Linda, okay? I understand that you have ‘rules’ but c’mon, just bend a bit today, okay? Just let us both swim.”

He shakes his head and I can tell he’s not going to budge. I glance over at the clock, now it’s been 14 minutes. Damn! If I’m gonna get a swim in at all, I need to let this go and deal with it later.

“It’s okay,” Ian says, taking off his fins and standing. “You go ahead and enjoy your swim, Carol.”

“I WON’T ENJOY MY SWIM!!!” I holler.

I turn and dive under the water, fuming. I can’t believe that he wouldn’t let Ian swim. There is plenty of room. It isn’t a safety issue. It’s 7 dollars for chrissakes. It’s not like we’re trying to scam the City of Richmond outta a few bucks. We just want to swim! A mistake was made.

What the hell is the Big Deal?

I am so mad, but as I continue my swim, some of the anger dissipates. Or at least the steam coming out of my ears is plugged up!

The whistle blows. I’m outta the pool and off the deck in record time. I ignore Mr. HardAss as I stomp off the deck, heading back through the locker rooms and into the parking lot where Ian is waiting for me in the car.

~~To Be Continued~~

Protocols

“Ma’am, we ask that you no longer deck change.” The lifeguard barely glances at me as she and her coworker busy themselves with the enormous pool covers.

“But it’s so cold,” I protest, shivering dramatically.

“I know, but we’ve had some problems with nudity.” Huh? What the hell is she talking about? Are the Berkeley swimmers baring their breasts and exposing their dicks after swimming their laps? I refrain from asking for the specifics though, “I think I was pretty discreet,” I offer defensively. I mean, hell, we can’t use the locker rooms because of the pandemic. What are we supposed to do?

            “You were,” she says, “But if we let one person do it then we have to let everyone.”

            Oh, I HATE this logic! Like we are all the same people? That everyone is bad so no one can do something even if they are careful? I used to use this logic when I was a kid and it never worked. “But Janine can do it, why can’t I?” Mom would dismiss me with the standard “Because I said so.” Of course, this was never a satisfying answer, but it shut me up.

            Why can’t this apply today? Just because I ‘deck change’ doesn’t mean that everyone else gets to. Why?

            Because I said so!

            The lifeguard continues with her lecture, “We ask that you just put on your parka over your suit and leave.”

            I shake my head as I zip up my parka, thinking how this lifeguard is just after me cuz I hassled her about not being able to switch pools anymore. When I asked her why, she had said two things: 1) Because of COVID (Huh? This makes no sense). 2) Because people complain that their lane isn’t held for them indefinitely. Okay, shouldn’t they have to just forfeit their lane if they're late? When I’d mentioned this to the lifeguard, she’d ignored me.

            I realize I’m not going to change ‘protocol’ here, but I pursue the COVID question anyway. It perplexes me: “You had said earlier that I couldn’t switch pools because of COVID. Why is that?”

            She doesn’t look at me now. Seems nervous. “I don’t know....my boss just said that it was the protocol. People switch chairs....” she offered. Okay, I’ll give her a tiny break here. I mean her boss runs the show, not her, but he/she/they should tell her why. I mean, c’mon. It makes no sense. Does COVID lurk on the deck between pools and when you walk from one pool to the other, it attacks the bottom of your bare feet?

            Switching chairs? Maybe. There are chairs at the end of each lane on the deck for swimmers to put their stuff. The lifeguards do spray these chairs with some sort of COVID killing chemical between lap hours. So, I suppose, if someone switched pools and then switched chairs there could be some contamination?

            Doesn’t seem likely though. The lifeguard agrees, “But most people don’t switch chairs, so....” Her voice trails off. I feel a little sorry for her, but then not really. I mean, the no-deck change is ludicrous. We’re at a water situation. I grew up at the beach. Surfers always changed out of their wetsuits in the street behind car doors. Standard practice. No one thought anything of it. I had always hoped to catch a glimpse of surfer ass, but this rarely happened.

            Just like tonight when I changed. Under my huge parka. Whipping my suit off. Putting my sweats on. C’mon. What is the problem?

            I’m sick of it all! The protocols for COVID are gonna drive me over the edge. I get that we don’t want to spread the virus unnecessarily, but hell, what does changing pools have to do with this?

            And now the no deck change?

            I’ve had it.

            As the lifeguard goes back to her lane cover task, I get snippy: “You all don’t make it easy for us to swim!” I harrumph. “First, no switching pools. Now no deck changing. It’s ridiculous.”

            She ignores me.

            I sigh. Very loudly. Gather up my stuff and head out of the area.

            We can’t switch pools. We can’t deck change. We can’t go to the bathroom.

            Hell, next time I come here I’m gonna pee in the pool!