Who is This Guy?

 

Who is This Guy? I think to myself as a whoosh of a man passes me in the next lane. 

I’m swimming in the shallow pool of Kennedy High on a Saturday. Have the entire side of the pool till This Guy shows up. Of course, I notice him getting into the lane next to me. Muscular, fit white guy. Mid-forties or so in short black trunks that hugged his masculine physic.

            He isn’t your ordinary Richmond Swimmer with the pot belly and limping gait.

            No. This is A Man.

            And when he got in the water, he could swim. Really swim! Lapping me every 200 yards or so. I’m not that fast, but then again, I’m not that slow. He has a smooth easy rhythm to his stroke. All freestyle. No fins. No snorkel. Just him and the water.

            Where the hell did he come from, I wonder as I watch him flip turn at the wall again.

            After about 20 minutes, he stops. Leaning against the wall, he stares out into space. Tired? Or just contemplating his speedy swim?

            At the wall now, I start to put on my fins. Glance over at him. He gives me a movie star smile. The dimple deep in his cheek, his blue eyes twinkling. Perfectly straight white teeth, but not too white. His shock of bleached brown curly hair, dripping.

            “Hi,” I venture.

            His smile broadens. “Hey.”

            “You are a mighty fast swimmer,” I comment, thinking how this is obvious. But no, he has other ideas.

 “Oh, I used to be,” he shakes his head, suddenly shy? “But I haven’t been swimming in a long time. I’m pretty out of shape.”

            Coulda fooled me, I think to myself. Don’t say this, but go for common ground instead: “You on a swim team?”

            He chuckles softly, “Yeah, back in high school. Team in Moraga. Now I mostly surf.”

            “Were you in those monster wave this last week?” I think about all the articles I’ve read of the Santa Cruz wharf being washed away, 60-foot waves at Mavericks.

            “Oh, no! I stay away from that action. I go for the smaller waves. I’m 46 years old. Not in  same shape as I used to be.”

            I think how he thinks he’s old at 46. Twenty years my junior. I don’t divulge my age. Not to him. Or anyone, lately.

            “Yeah, you have to be careful. My brother-in-law is in his 70s. He surfs, body surfs. Recently he crashed body surfing, hurt his shoulder.”
            He shakes his head. “Sorry to hear that. But, yeah…. that’s my dream. Surfing at 70.”

            I think how 70 is only 4 years away for me. Will I be surfing? No. Haven’t done that really since I was in college with the boys at Pleasure Point in Santa Cruz. I’d get up before the sun came out, drive with the guys to Capitola, we’d pull our wetsuits on, then hurl ourselves with our UCSC Styrofoam boards into the frigid surf.

            I only did this cuz the boys were so cute.

            Now, talking to Surfer Man, I can see the similarity with the boys I used to know. That cocky confidence, subtle, that they’re handsome, athletic, and attractive. That the ocean is no foe of theirs, but a playground to swim with waves, seals, and surfer girls.

            I wonder what has happened to these surfer boys of my youth? Are they swimming in pools in various cities across the state like This Guy?

            I can only hope this is true.

            Now, I finish putting on my fins, then smile over at Surfer Man. “Take care of yourself. Don’t let those monster waves sweep you away.”

            He laughs, his dimple crinkling, then nods, “Don’t worry. I’m not that stupid.”

            I dive under the water, thinking how, yes, he doesn’t seem stupid.

            But hell, with a body and smile like that, who needs brains!

            I turn at the opposite wall, catching a glimpse of him lifting himself easily out of the pool, sitting on the deck for a moment, then standing and striding out of the natatorium.

Menacing

 

“That was magical….” LS sighs, turning on the shower, letting the hot water cascade over her after our swim.

“Yeah, it was…” I agree… “except for The Perv watching over us.”

“I found his whistling to be a bit menacing,” Teresa says, leaning her head back into the shower to gather water for shampoo. “You know, there we were, just three women in the pool and here’s this Man, this Large White Guy, up there on his throne whistling at us. I don’t know if it was conscious or not, but to be whistling at three women in the pool…. well…I found it a bit menacing. Men are so used to taking up all the space. And that whistling, it was definitely a manifestation of this.”

“WOW!” I exclaim. “That is so true. I knew he was particularly creepy today, but I always think that he is. (Regular readers may remember that The Perv informed me about a year ago that ‘I can see through your suit; you might consider replacing it.’)  “So, of course, today, I noticed the whistling, I just didn’t pinpoint this as a behavior that was menacing today, but you’re right. It was!”

          And menace is in the air, right? Esp. from Fat White Men in charge. They have all power right now. Or at least they think so. And as women in this country, we need to let them know that they don’t.
          Last weekend, Teresa had told me how this Big White Guy that she had to share a lane with cuz there weren’t any other openings told her that she had to watch out for him cuz his backstroke was wide and if she didn’t watch out, he might hit her. She’d fired back, “I have to watch out for you! Listen Dude, you need to watch out for me. Not the other way around.”

          Her large brown eyes flashed with anger. “After last week’s election, watch out. I’m mad as hell and not gonna take it anymore.”

          Okay, she didn’t actually say that famous line to me, but this anger and frustration at the world of Trump is palpable. I move through it in the pool when large men get in the lane with me, taking up all the space. Cuz you know, they can. It’s all about them. I’m invisible. Why on this same day that Teresa is talking about, down at the Richmond Plunge, when it was so crowded, I got into a lane and signaled the man already in the water to split the lane with me. He’d acknowledged my presence. We swam a couple of laps just fine, I on the right side of the black line, he on the left side when WHAM, he crashed right into me.

          “Oh…sorry sorry,” he’d mumbled, before turning and swimming on. I was left fuming. What the hell was the matter with this guy? Did he just forget he’d been swimming laps? Or, was is something more menacing. That palpable right-wing fog that was spreading all over the country. Women were, once again, very much second-class citizens. No rights over their own bodies. No options to ‘take care of it.’

          But hey! Why should I care? I’m an old crone. It’s not an issue for me anymore. (Yeah, Trump said that. But I’m not gonna get into all the insulting misogynist things that come spewing out of his mouth every minute of every day right now. You’ve all heard them. You know what I’m talking about)

          “That word menacing…” I nod toward Teresa as we're out of the showers now, throwing on our clothes. “It’s such a good word!”

          She smiles. “It is. Menacing…hey Men- a- cing…I never thought about that till now!”

          We all laugh.  "I’m gonna look up the etymology of the word later."

        "Speaking of entymology," LS contributes, "have you heard of the word petrichore?"

       "No," we both respond. 

        "Petrichore is the smell of rain. The word comes from the Greek words for 'petra', meaning stone, and 'ichor' which in Greek mythology refers to the golden fluid that flows in the veins of the immortals."

        "Wow!" we exclaim.

         "Let's hope there's no ichor in the veins of The Perv!" I cry.

        "Oh, he can't be an immortal!" LS pronounces.

        "Yes, I'm sure he's not. Unless he's one of those immortals from Hades that's come to our sphere to torture us with his whistling!"

          We all laugh, cuz  for now, menace is not in our sphere. We are three women laughing, dressing, and commiserating over the state of the world.

          Let him whistle. I don’t care. I’m mad as hell ...and..... I’m not gonna take it anymore!

Menacing Entymology

Election 2024

The Day Before the Election

“Hello?”
“Oh…Hi! This is Carol, a volunteer for Team Harris-Walz and….”

“Lemme ask you a question.” The Man from Pennsylvania interrupts my spiel, barreling right into my words. “What’s your favorite color?
“Blue.”

“Me too. Lemme ask you another question, What do you like better, Ford of Chevy?”
“Ford.”

“Me too! I have a Ford truck parked in the drive right now. Hey! Do you like to mow your lawn?”

“No.”

“Me neither. I….”

“I have to go now,” I interrupt him. Why I’ve gone along with his random questions so far is beyond me. I think I was just so happy to finally reach a real person instead of everyone’s Voicemail that I was swept away. Plus, he didn’t give me a chance to protest.

Now I hang up. Not letting him ask another stupid question. Is this what political phone banking is for? Answering stupid questions from stupid men in stupid states?

I sigh. Dial the next number.

“You have reached 918.555.7865, please leave your message after the tone.”

“Hi, this is Carol, a volunteer with the Harris Walz team and….”

 

 

 

Nazareen School, Holy Bible, 1937

Election Day

“I tell you, it doesn’t matter who wins. Man or Woman. Republican or Democrat. Red or Blue or Purple. There is only ONE person in control and that is God.”

            I’m trying to yank my swimsuit on in the Richmond Plunge Women’s locker room. Had I asked her who she had voted for? Or was this proclamation of God as the only one in control something that was volunteered into the community air of the locker room? I can’t recall. And it hardly matters. She’s going to say what she believes no matter what others think.

            I never know what to say to those who have this belief. My first reaction is shock and increduality.  I mean, ‘c’mon, God is in charge? Since I don’t believe in God this is easy for me to say. But another part of me thinks, well, if this gives her comfort then let her continue on.

            She struggles now to pull on her sweatpants. Trapped in a wheelchair, her life is one that I can’t imagine. Maybe a belief in a being that has all the control is the only way she can get through the day. And the pool. She must feel so free floating, out of the confines of the chair, the water’s embrace taking her to places she can’t go on land.

Getty Images

            Today, after her proclamation, I don’t respond. Just nod and continue on with my preparations to get into the pool. She’s busy too. Her dressing so much more labored than anything I struggle with. Her heavy black sweatpants still crumpled at her feet; she’s taking a rest before carrying on. Staring out into the vacuum.

            Heading out to the pool, I let the God Comment float around in my brain. Nothing I could say that would change her mind, I’m sure. It must be nice to have no responsibility for anything, especially politics on a day like today. I sit at the edge of the pool, dangling my feet into the aqua water, before jumping in and swimming swimming swimming.

           

Day After Election Day

Turning at the wall in the shallow end of the Plunge, Harp Woman stands on the deck in front of me. She motions to split the lane. I nod, yes. “Good morning,” I greet her.

            She stares at me for a split second, then shakes her head, “It’s NOT a good morning.”

Whoa! I know it’s not. Kamala lost. And it wasn’t even close. The Rapist Lying Crook has won. Given permission by the American people to run things his way.

            So, yes, it’s not a good morning for anyone who voted for Kamala. Myself included.

            But, hell, I was just greeting her. I didn’t literally mean that it was a ‘good’ morning.

            This is how upset people are. They, I imagine cuz this is how I feel, feel like they’ve been punched in the gut. Hard. All of their efforts to bring Kamala to victory were for naught. I had spent many hours the past weekend phoning folks in Pennsylvania and Nevada, urging them to vote.

            And, yet, I know that many of them didn’t. Though my hope is that some of the dozens of people I left the scripted voicemails for were prompted to cast their ballots for Kamala. No way of knowing, of course.

            Today, the day after, I’m at the pool. Where else would I be? Swimming is my salvation. My church. My religion. Yes, I don’t believe in God. And yes, I know that the world now is dangerous and scary with this crook in the Whitehouse again. But all I can do today is swim.

            Tomorrow is another day.

            Will I fight anymore? Make any more phone calls? Talk to the naysayers.

            You bet I will.

            But for today, I’m going to just let the water carry me into another more peaceful world full of blue light and luscious embrace.

            Harp Woman is in the water now. Chugging away with her bright pink turban on.

            I can only hope the pool helps her too.

            She turns at the wall, not interacting with me anymore.

            From the looks of it, the pool is doing its work. She’s swimming. And sometimes, that’s all we can do.

Kamala's Concession (NOT!) Speech:

A Swim in the Sea

 

“I’m gonna go swim in that sea today!”

Ian finishes chewing his bagel. “It’s really cold. Are you sure you wanna do that?”
I grin, taking a slug of coffee. “YES! When am I gonna get another chance to swim in the ocean?”

We’re in Santa Cruz, eating breakfast at the little table in our Airbnb off Seabright, the brightly colored walls of peach, lemon and rose surrounding us. A gentle breeze whispers through the open door to the cottage.

            “It’s a perfect day for it,” I continue. “I know the water is cold, but it’s September. It’s warm out! I will be okay.”
            Ian shakes his head. “I dunno….”

            “You don’t have to swim.”

            “Oh, don’t worry. It hadn’t even occurred to me.”
            We chuckle. I remember how he used to swim with me at Keller Cove in Pt. Richmond during the Pandemic. The water there had been SO cold. I had had a wetsuit, but Ian had braved the icy bay without one.

            I finish my coffee, take the plate and cup over to the sink to rinse off.

            “Let’s go before it gets too sunny!” I push.

            “Okay, okay, I’m coming….” he says, chewing the last bite of bagel before heading into the bedroom to collect the beach accoutrements: chairs, towels, umbrellas and fortitude!

 

            Sitting on the sand, slathering on sunscreen, I ponder the sea. It’s calm now, but there’s a swell. I’ll just have to time my entry between waves. I’m not worried about this.

            I am a little worried about the water temp, but I just know that I’ll love it once I’m in. And, I don’t have to swim long. I just want to get wet and fell the buoyancy of the sea.

            As I back into the water, I gasp. It is so goddamn cold! Ian’s on shore, watching me. “You sure you don’t want to join me?” I holler.

            “What?”
            He can’t hear me over the waves, so I just grin and continue to back in, slipping on my fins before diving under the first frigid wave.

            Exhilarating!

            I begin to kick and stroke out beyond the break. Turning on my back once I’m over the waves, stroking quickly to try to keep warm. But knowing that this will be impossible without my wetsuit. I’ll just have to swim a bit and then get out.

            But as I swim, grinning up at the blue blue sky, a flock of pelicans come swooping near me. I continue to stroke on my back when one swoops down near me. He seems to slow, checking me out. If I stretched my arm up just a little further, I could almost touch him.

            “Hello, Mr. Pelican!” I call out.

            He looks at me with his little beady eye. I look at him with mine. We have eye-to-eye interspecies communication for just a split second. I am him. He is me. It’s magical!

            Then he flaps his wings, enormous in their span, and head off to join his flock.

            I turn onto my stomach and start stroking the freestyle, heading back into shore.

 

            “Ian!” I hail him.

            “Carol!” he calls back, running toward me with a towel.

            “Guess what?”
            “What?”
            “I made a friend!”

            “You did?”
            “Yes, a Pelican Friend. We had interspecies communication for a moment.”

            He grins. “Cool!”

            “It was!”

But now I’m shivering. Have to get warm.

            Lying on the towels in the warm sand, the sun’s heat starts to thaw me out. I hear the gulls calling, the waves crashing, some kids screaming.

            It’s a day at the beach. And, I’m so glad I’m here.

           

Buckley

 

“Oh…this isn’t going to work….” Crestfallen, LS gazed down at the huge round bulge in her big black bag mounted on the side of the bike. I couldn’t really see what she was talking about. It just looked like her bike bag. But when she tried to walk the bike a tiny bit in the street, it wobbled.

            We were standing outside the Richmond Swim Center after a horrendously crowded swim. I actually had to circle swim (swimmers will know what I mean; non-swimmers don’t need to know what this is other than it is something heinously undesirable.) And, I had to share the lane with The Creep! Fortunately, the third swimmer was The Nice Man, which is why I chose the lane in the first place. I knew he’d know how to circle swim.

            Oh, this isn’t really important to the story other than to let you know I was exhausted and a bit cranky after navigating the crowded pool for an hour.

            Now as I watched LS try to shift the round weight around in her bike bag to keep herself from toppling over once she got on the bike, I wondered how I could help.

“I don’t think Z understood how getting the watermelon home on the bike was going to be a challenge.” LS sighed softly, shaking her head.

 How did she end up with a watermelon at the pool you might ask? Z, another swimmer, had brought it to the pool and given it to LS. Which was very nice. But, now transport home was a dilemma.

            “Maybe you can put the watermelon in the Fiat and I can keep it for you till tomorrow. You could bring your truck then.”

            “That’s not going to work I don’t think….” Her voice trailed off.

            “I would just give you a ride home but I really have to work this afternoon.”

            “Oh, no, that’s okay. I understand. I’ll figure something out.”

            But we both just continued to stand there staring at her bike bag, stymied by a watermelon.

                        Then, I thought to myself, what the hell. I have till 5 pm to get the work done. It’s only 12:30 or so now. I could help!

            “Let’s just put the watermelon in the Fiat and I’ll drive it to your house,” I offered.

            “Oh, no….really?”
            “Sure, it won’t take long. Besides it’s a good story! Wish I could put you in the Fiat too but you have your bike.”

            “Oh, that’s okay.”

            “Let’s put it on the floor behind the driver’s seat,” I suggested.

            I attempted to push the seat forward. But it was stuck. When was the last time I’d put anything in the back? I couldn’t even remember.

            “Ummm…. okay, I know, let’s just put it on the seat of the passenger side.”

            “Great!” LS lifted the huge heavy dark green fruit out of her bike bag and put it on the front seat next to me.

            “Okay, I’ll just meet you at your house,” I called out as she got on her bike and I pulled out into the street.

 

            Driving down Potrero toward LS’s house in El Cerrito the car alert alarm suddenly went off. You know the sound the car makes when there’s something wrong. I checked my rearview mirror. Had I left the trunk open? I saw no evidence of this. I looked down at my gauges. Was I in Drive? (The other day, I think because of my broken wrist, I hadn’t gotten the car into gear and it has started beeping at me.) But today, I’m in Drive. Was the car overheating? I glanced down at the heat gauges. Nope. All seemed fine.

            As the signal changed, the car stopped beeping. Okay, maybe just a false alarm. But I was nervous now.

            What was wrong with my car?

            Maybe there was an issue with the car and I shouldn’t be driving a watermelon to El Cerrito!

            As I crossed San Pablo, the alarm went off again.

            Damn!

            I drove up a block and pulled over.  What was wrong?

            I glanced over at the watermelon, calmly reposing in the passenger seat. And then it hit me! The watermelon was so heavy that it had set off the seatbelt alert.

            I needed to buckle it in!

            Laughing, I reached around my ‘passenger’ to grab the seatbelt, then pulled it over and snapped in on.

            “There you go! We’re safe now!” I announced. The watermelon looked snug all buckled in.

            I headed down Potrero and made the left on Liberty. The alarm was silent.

            I continued to laugh to myself the 3 or 4 blocks down Liberty till I pulled up in front of LS’s house. Got out of the car and glanced down the street. Here she was, coming up on her bike. Good timing!

            When she got to her house, she walked her bike into the back, as I was bursting to tell her the story of the watermelon setting off the seatbelt sensor alarm.

            She cracked up. Of course. It was a hilarious story. “We should name it!” she suggested.

            As I unbuckled the watermelon, she reached in to retrieve it. “How about Buckley?” I offered.

            “Perfect!” she said, asking me if I wanted to come in for a slice.

            But now I had to go. Work called. But Buckley was home. The Fiat wasn’t broken. And I had plenty of time to do my work.

          In the end,  it had all worked out. Whew! 

         

Stronger?

 

"What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” I think the platitude was meant to ally my complaining about the cold. She even agreed, saying how it was so cold out. Nodding, I joke that it was the middle of August for chrissakes!

As I try to keep my teeth from chattering, I laugh, trying to keep a sense of humor about it. But I am so goddamn cold! The Plunge Pool is always cold, and frankly, I don’t need it. My entire body is shivering. My fingers are little white frozen popsicles. My brain is cranky!

She heads out of the locker-room into the Cold Zone. I wish her luck.

And then think, is it true? That what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger?

Not that I think I’m going to die from swimming at the Plunge, but I am miserable.

Does that make me stronger?

I think not.

I think it just makes me more frail, less robust.

Like my broken wrist this summer. Okay, honestly, there was one point in the emergency room where they had given me some heavy-duty painkillers and then wheeled me to a dark room. On the way, all I saw in my brain were florescent bright images of lime, lemon, and orange coral.

I thought I was dying.

Of course, I wasn’t. Yet, did this belief that I thought I was leaving the planet, and then surviving it, make me stronger?

Maybe. I know that if I hallucinate florescent coral reefs again that I’m not dying. That could be a help in the future if I go through this again.

Which I hope I don’t!

But another part of me is filled with fear and anxiety. I don’t want to go through another bone break. I am afraid of falling again. I walk with trepidation. I move my wrist with ginger care.

It’s not an attitude of strength.

Yet, are there other times where I thought I was going to die and then I reemerged stronger?

The ambulance ride to the Loretta Krankenhaus in Bavaria when I was sure the pain would kill me. It came out of nowhere. A lightning bolt of agony. A doctor came to my bed. Gave me a horse needle full of painkiller.

I survived.

Was I stronger? Perhaps. Years later I can look back on that experience and realize that I am a survivor. I have, at this point in my life, survived cancer and surgeries and other near misses. (Haven’t we all been driving on the freeway when a zooming car comes out of nowhere, cuts us off, and we have to hold our breath and hope they don’t crash?)

So, today, when Linda platitudes me, I have to smile and shrug. In a way, she’s right. After all, I’m still here.

But still. I think the Plunge could turn up the heat! Just a little. For Chrissakes, it is the middle of August!

 

The Struggle Bus

 

“How was your swim lesson?” We’re in the Kennedy High Pool locker room. The two women are bustling to remove their colorful suits: one bright pink with soft rose flowers, the other a vivid Prussian blue solid. I’d seen them in the pool earlier, their radiant suits standing out from everyone else’s black and navy ones. One had her hair piled up like a mountain inside a large black cap --a towering spectacle. The other had her matching fuchsia cap—only a small round hill atop her head.

            They climbed into the pool gingerly, squealing even though they were both at least 50 years old.

            Now we’re getting dressed next to each other in the mayhem that is Saturday morning post swim lesson: screaming children, frazzled moms, laps swimmers trying to get the hell out of there.

            “It was great,” one of the women answered me now, as she pulled on her yellow and orange striped sundress.

            “It looked like you all were having fun,” I respond.

            One of them gave me a look, then laughed. “Oh, we were on the Struggle Bus!” she exclaimed, laughing, her friend nodding.

            The Struggle Bus! I thought to myself. Wow! That is saying a lot about their experience.  It is not lost on me that here I am, a white woman, talking to two Black women, and the connection to Rosa Parks and the struggle for Civil Rights. Is this where the term comes from I wonder?

 But when I think about it, swimming can also be struggle, though of course not comparable to the henious kinds of bigotry and discrimination Black people went through and continue to go through in the US.

But if you're learning to swim as an adult, it’s not a natural thing to be doing; donning a swimsuit and cap and goggles, learning specific motions to move your body through the water. I see how hard it is for many of these learners. How their arms fall flat on the surface of the water, no airplane angle with elbow up whatsoever. And the kicking with its massive splashing starting at the knee instead of the moving from the hip and using your core.

            It is a struggle!

I forget this since the water is my home. I feel so natural in the water, moving through it easily and gratefully. My lightness and ease in the water is what I live for. But I’ve been swimming all my life.

            “Did you swim competitively?” a big tank of a man asked me the next day.

            “Yes.”

            “Me too. When did you learn how to swim?”
            “Oh, I don’t know. I was really little, 4, 5 or 6?”
            “Yeah, me too. Learned down at The Plunge in fact.”

            “I learned at the Sunset Hills Club in La Puente.” I don’t know if this is really true, but it sounds good.
            So when these two women ‘struggle’ to swim, I have so much admiration for them. It takes a lot of courage to learn something new as an adult, particularly something like swimming. There is an understandable fear involved. I mean, you could drown! Not at the Richmond Swim Center, but out in the ocean or the bay.

            Not that anyone goes swimming in the SF Bay except for crazy open water dolphin swimmers that have some sort of nonhuman layer of fat to keep them warm!

            Yet, it’s important to know how to swim, cuz you never know. It’s like all those things that we need to know how to do as an adult: swim, ride a bike, drive a car.

            The women are dressed now, gathering up their swim bags and heading for the door.

            “See you next week,” I call after them.

            “Yes, you will!” they both call back to me in unison.

            I’m sure they’ll be on the Struggle Bus for a few weeks, but I bet the end of the summer, they’ll be off that bus and boarded on another—the I Love to Swim Bus will be waiting for them to climb aboard and float away.