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!