Commitment

“You MUST commit to the Roly-Poly!” The child sputtered and flipped about in the pool, his bright blue goggles foggy, his little brown legs churning the water. Spitting up water, he clung to the side of the pool. I smiled over at him, trying to ameliorate the beratement, but he wasn’t focused on me.

            The Roly-Poly was the focus now.

            Orange and Pink-haired swim instructor girl was trying. But the exasperation of teaching toddlers the Roly Poly was beginning to test her patience. “Remember what I told you?” she asked. “You can’t just do half of the Roly Poly, you have to turn all the way around.”

            The boy stuck his face in the water again, his little arms flailing, his legs kicking kicking kicking.

            I turned away from him, knowing that he didn’t need an audience, reaching for my water bottle I took a long swig. Here at the Boys and Girls Club of San Dieguito, the pool’s end lanes were reserved for swim lessons. I had been swimming laps in the lane next to the lessons. Hence, I was in prime proximity for lesson tips.

            I’ve always believed that commitment is key, esp. in the pool. If you hesitate, well, you could run into trouble pretty quickly. I remember when I was out swimming at 17^th street, during a huge swell, red flag flying. I wasn’t supposed to be in the water. But I was 17 and stupid. I thought that I knew better than the sea. After all, I was a strong swimmer. Was on the swim team. What were a few giant waves to me? I could just duck under. Yet, I hadn’t banked on the riptide current. When I got out there, I was immediately in its clutches. It began to pull me toward the breakwater with alarming force. For a moment, I panicked. Then it came to me that I could swim around the breakwater and get out of the current that way.

            But I had to commit to this. If I hesitated, I’d be smashed against the breakwater. Taking a deep breath, I pushed down my fear. I could do this. I just had to do it. And so, I swam out and out. And then around the breakwater. The swim wasn’t long, but it was rough. Yet my determination and survival instinct, let’s be frank, got me to the other side.

            Lord knows the lifeguard was no help. When I dragged myself out of the water, I stopped at the tower and glared at him.

            “Thanks for your help,” I had snarled.

            He had chuckled, “You looked like you were doing okay.”

            And obviously, I did do okay. But I never would have made it around that breakwater without committing to the plan.

            “That’s it!” Pink Hair exclaimed. “That’s what I’m talking about! That Roly Poly was awesome!”

            The boy clung to her, his chubby arms around her slim neck, a big grin on his small face.
“Do you want to do it again?” she asked.

            She didn’t have to ask twice. Another Roly Poly commenced. And then another. He was going to town now. Once success happens, there’s no turning back.

            So, remember, if ever you’re feeling on the fence about something, just take a deep breath, close your eyes, and commit to the Roly Poly. 

Having a Blast

“I bet you’re on a swim team!” She’s been lapping me every 200 yards or so. Her sleek young body hurling through the water. Butterfly. Freestyle. Breaststroke. Kickboard. Backstroke. She does it all.

            And she does it really well!

            I marvel at her youth and energy as I continue to plow through the water, my arms tired and achy.

            Oh, to be 14 again!

            I remember joining the swim team. I loved it! We’d practice every afternoon for hours, back and forth, back and forth. Logging in 100s of laps a day. My best friends, JB and LT, were also on the team. My favorite event was the 100-yard relay. I loved to anchor it. My teammates would dive in, swim a lap, churning up the water with their speedy little bodies, then I’d come in last, diving in, swimming for victory!

            We did often win.

            So, today, when I spy Swim Team Girl and ask her about her favorite stroke, she warms a little.  

            “100 free,” she says, her mirrored goggles reflecting the aqua of the pool.

            “What do you swim it in?” I ask, remembering how in my youth, I did it in 1:04.

            She says something, but I can’t understand her. My earplugs. Her shyness, turning her head slightly away from me. Who is this old lady asking me all these questions about the swim team? I just want to swim.

            And off she goes again. The water churning behind her in a white wake.

            Her mom gets in. She’s got the Bikini up your Ass Suit on, but she still can swim. She can’t keep up with her daughter though. No way in hell.

            Then the dad gets in. He swims a few laps a bit faster than mom, but still, he’s no match for Swimmer Daughter.

            I pause at the end of the pool, watching her swim. Ian stands on deck, grinning and nodding. He’s impressed too.

            Later he tells me, while we’re crunching our Lara Bars in the warmth of the car, that the Swimmer Girl wanted people to notice her.

            “Really?” I say.

            “Oh, yeah. And, so when you did, that was a cool thing to do.”

            “All I did was ask her if she was on the swim team, but I could tell she was.”

            “See? That’s what I mean.”

            “And I asked her what her favorite event was. She said the 100 free.”

            “That too. Only you would know to ask her that.”

            I nod, chewing my peanut butter chocolate chip mouthful. “I guess you’re right. You wouldn’t have known to ask her that.”

            “Nope.”

             I remember a comment my mom made to me once, not too long ago, about my swim team days. How I was a leader. How when a teammate flailed, I was there to buoy her up, encourage her. I told my mom how I didn’t remember doing this.

            But I guess it makes sense that I did. I kinda did it today when I noticed Swimmer Girl’s speedy strokes.

            “I’m cold,” I say now, pulling on my seatbelt.

            “Sure, we can go.” Ian starts the engine, shifts into reverse.

            I take another bite of my Lara bar and close my eyes. I’m back in the pool, on the swim team, the girls shouting and jumping up and down in a fever! I’m in the 100 free relay, swimming for my teammates, touching the wall for the win, and having a blast.

 

Lane Number 2

Through my foggy leaking mask, I see her approach me. Noodle Woman. She clutches it around her waist ready for entry. In her baggy pink tank suit and messy ponytail of dark hair, she stands in front of my lane. Points at it.

            “I am in Lane 2.”

            Okay, I admit it. I switched lanes earlier. I had to get out of Lane 4 in front of the gale-force winds that swooped through the open doors. Not to mention that Cross Butt Man had just gotten into lane 3 and was creating tidal wave action. So, I’d asked the Nice Lifeguard, when I noticed the swimmer in lane 2 was leaving, if I could move over there. Lane 2 is away from the door. And there was no tidal wave action on that side of the pool. Nice Lifeguard had said, “Sure, no problem” when I asked if I could move.

            Yet, now there was a problem. Even though the lane I had abandoned, Lane 4, was still empty.

            I told Noodle Woman this. That she could just take the empty Lane 4. She stared down at me, her face dark with anger and indignation. “I am assigned Lane 2!” she repeated.

            “Yeah....” I didn’t really want to get into a big explanation with her as to why I took her lane with only 25 minutes left to swim before the pool closed. So, I didn’t. I just offered to move back.

            “I could ask him,” she offered, pointing at Nice Lifeguard.

            “Good idea,” I said, wanting to get back to my laps with the clock ticking. She wasn’t in any hurry.

            I imagine Noodle Swimmers usually aren’t. Not that I have anything against Noodle Swimmers. My mom was a Noodle Swimmer, or more of a Noodle Floater, after she injured her back in Palm Springs when the dog knocked her over. I went with her once to her community pool, where the water was warm and calm. She floated in the lane, serenely paddling back and forth. It was one of the few times I’ve seen her in a pool.

            She was so happy!

            Today, though, I don’t want to share my lane with Noodle Woman. She seems like trouble. And, I have to admit, she was right. I had taken her lane. But why not just go into the empty lane?

            Maybe she was new and didn’t know the anarchy that prevailed about Lane Assignments here in the Richmond Pools. As Liv said to me once, “I just nod when the young woman at the front desk assigns me a lane, and then when I get out here, I take any lane that’s available.”

            Yes. That’s what we all do.

            Though I can see how it’s confusing if you’re assigned a lane and then someone is already in it.

            I start in on my backstroke lap, deciding I’m not gonna wait for Noodle Woman to give me the Lane Verdict. I’m sure the lifeguard will just tell her it’s okay to swim in the empty lane.

            And as I move down the lane, I spot her signal of A-Okay. The one where you make a circle with your thumb and index finger, the other three fingers standing up behind like those turkey drawings we used to make at Thanksgiving.

            I sigh to myself as I continue down the lane, relieved that I don’t have to move. Or share a lane with Noodle Woman.

            Later, she and I are the only ones left in the locker room. I’m trying to hurry before the lifeguards start yelling at us to get out. Noodle Woman doesn’t seem aware of any time limit. She’s sitting on the bench, half-dressed, staring at the Pool Schedule. I am sure, now, that she is new. And, I do consider apologizing for taking her lane.

            But then I don’t. Who cares? I’ll probably never see her again. Or if I do, and she becomes a ‘regular’ she’ll learn that the lane assignments are just a formality.

            I grab my bag bursting with wet gear, my hair dripping and cold down my neck.

            “Happy Cinco de Mayo!” Jose calls out after me.

            “Yes! Happy Cinco de Mayo,” I holler back. Pushing open the front door, I head into the cold Richmond wind, wishing I were back in  Palm Springs.  In that warm and serene pool with my mom, floating and floating and floating.....

A Silver Lining

 

“BRRRRRrrrrrrrr!” Chilly Wet Woman scurries into the locker room here at Kennedy just as I plonk down my stuff.

“It’s cold!” I commiserate.

“Yes!” Are her teeth chattering? This doesn’t bode well, I think, as I open Locker No 75 and begin cramming my clothes inside. “It’s the wind, right?” I pursue the topic, hoping it’s not the water.

“Yes!” she nods, “that’s it!” Shivering in her wet suit, she heads to the showers.

As I walk out to the pool, the cold wind whips around the hallway to the Natatorium. Damn. It is cold! And all the doors are open in the pool area because of COVID. When can that action stop? Yet, COVID seems here to stay. I had just read in the paper that the latest variant, some sub sub sub variant of OMICRON was swelling in the Bay Area.

            So, the doors will remain open for the foreseeable future. I guess the wind is better than the virus, right?

            As I dip my toe in the pool, the normally warm water feels chilly. Damn damn damn. I’m already here too early, at 10:00 am. Usually, I’m just finishing up my coffee. But the pool hours are so limited. I had thought, hell, I can make it to the pool by 10 to get in a swim before 11. But it’s hard. Esp. if I’ve been up watching Mary Tyler Moore at 2 in the morning.

            At least I don’t live in Minneapolis like Mary!

   

         I ease into the chilly water, sucking in my breath. Is it me? Or is the water colder today? I mean, it could just be the wind, but no....I think the water is colder.

            I swim as hard as I can to try to get warm, but I’m tired. My arms feel like heavy little logs. Lifting them is a challenge. Then pulling through the water is just hard!

            I swim though. And, while I don’t get warm, I’m not so cold that I have to get out.

And the swim is good otherwise. I have my own lane. Mighty Splash Man has gotten out so I’m not drowning in his tidal wave action anymore. I’m in the water. I made it to the pool before 10 and now I’m swimming. That’s really all that matters.

            Except I am cold.

            Climbing out of the pool is an ordeal. It’s even colder now with the wind whipping around the deck from the wide-open doors.

            I have to complain to the Nice Lifeguard. “It’s cold today!” I shout through my mask, pausing for a moment before heading into the locker room,

            “Yeah, it’s the wind.”

            “Yes, but I think the pool was cooler today, too.” Do I ever get tired of complaining about the pool temperature? I do. I like to give praise, too, though when it’s warm. Last week, at The Plunge, I told Jose how warm the water was. “RIGHT ON!” he grinned. That guy is always happy.

            Wonder what that’s like?

            Nice Lifeguard is sympathetic. He likes warm water, too. We’ve had conversations where we both agree that warm water is better water. So today, he agrees with me. “Yeah, I think the water is a little cooler today....maybe 83?”

            “Or 82!” I laugh. And, think how can I be cold in 82-degree water? Easy! If my body is 97 degrees, then I’m submerging it in a liquid that is almost 20 degrees colder. No wonder I get cold!

            He grins at me behind his black mask, shutting the doors now that the pool is closed. Again, I long for non-COVID times.

            In the shower, I get a little warmer, but not much. As I am drying off, I’m trying not to shiver. One other woman is in the room. Harpist Woman. I don’t think she remembers me but we had a chat about music one day. She and her friend told me they liked Rachmaninoff when I told them I played classical piano.

            “It’s cold today!” I proclaim to her now.

            She’s trying to get dry too, but turns around and smiles, “Yes, but I heard it’s good for the organs.”

            “Really?” I had heard somewhere that cold water was bad for the heart. I think I did some research on it when I was swimming in the really cold water at Keller the past two summers during the height of COVID when all the pools were closed. There were warnings in the literature about how staying in too cold water can cause heart attacks.

            Or did I just believe this? Or did someone tell me this?

            Hell, I don’t know. All I know is that her assertion that cold is good for the organs surprises me.

            “Yes,” she continues, wrapping her waist-length hair up into a turquoise turban, “when we are in hot and then cold and then hot and then cold. This back and forth is good for our organs.”

            I’m dubious, but want to keep the conversation going. “Well, I guess we’ve got that covered today!”

            “Yes.” She pauses, thinking, then grins over at me as she grabs her bag, “So you see, there is always a Silver Lining.”

            Oh, no! Not one of those people! Always a Silver Lining? Really? Platitudes are so annoying, esp. when they make simplistic positive proclamations. Oh, but yeah, that’s the definition of a platitude, right?

            I head to the toilet and when I come out, she’s gone.

            How did she get out of here so fast, I wonder. I guess she knew she’d closed the conversation with that Silver Lining quip.

            Still chilly, I start the getting dressed process, thinking about my organs and how healthy they must be from all my swimming in the cold.

            “Any Ladies still in there?” A lifeguard hollers at me.

            “Yes, I’ll be out in a minute!” Why are they always yelling at us to get out of the locker room when the 15-minute rule is clearly posted? It’s only 11:05. I still have 10 minutes until the 15 minute you have to get outta the locker room rule kicks in.

            I cram my stuff in my bag, wishing I had a turquoise turban for my wet hair as I head out of the locker room into the wind. A seagull circles overhead. A puffy cloud floats in the sky. I'm wet and cold, but my organs feel fine as I unlock the Fiat and climb into its warm embrace. 

As a Kid.....

 “As a Parent (and yes, Parent is capitalized), I think that my kid should be able to swim in the lap lanes if he can swim laps.”

The kid is shifting back and forth, his brown legs itching to dive in the pool. Ian and I are behind a mob of families at the Richmond Swim Center. Everyone wants to swim! But there’s a limit. The number of families allowed in the pool is what? I have no clue. For me, one family can be too much. But I get how exciting it is, too, for the kids. I remember being a kid and just living in the pool. Of course, when I was the age of this boy, I’m guessing he’s around 7 or 8, I had the privilege of swimming in my own backyard pool in Hacienda Heights. I’d go out every day and swim laps. 100.....200......250.....I never wanted to stop swimming.

    

        Yet, today, I don’t want to share my ‘adult’ lap lane with a bunch of kids.

            And, honestly, do they really swim laps?

            Parent Woman sighs loudly. “I mean, there are just so few pools open for family swim.”

            I nod, “Yeah, I heard that El Cerrito is open but doesn’t have Family Swim.”        

            “Exactly!” Parent Mom is so miffed. The nerve! Why aren’t the pools’ schedules built around her needs?

            I turn to the kid, “Do you know how to swim laps?”

            He shrugs, steps away from me, his blue and green palm tree trunks swaying in the waiting room. Then he glances up at me, “Kinda.”

            Parent Mom jumps on that! “He can.....I mean....he can swim laps for a while and then, you know...well...he’s a kid.”

            Exactly! He’s a kid! He can’t really swim laps! Nor should he have to unless he wants to. I was an unusual kid, going out to the backyard and logging in hundreds of laps a week when I was 10 years old. Most kids just want to jump in the water, do handstands, play Marco Polo, and hold each other’s heads under the water till someone cries “Uncle”!

            Not that I and my sisters didn’t do all of the above. Marco Polo was always a favorite. And when I still hear it today, I can’t believe that kids haven’t come up with another game. Or at least another call and response. What could they use that would be current? I don’t know. I think that it could be an educational or even literary game.

            Emily!

            Bronte!

Or

            Leo!

            Tolstoy!

Or

            Ernest!

            Hemingway!

Yet, I doubt this would catch on. How could a writer compete with a famous explorer who rampaged through Mongolia on horseback, beheading his enemies with viscous swipes of his mighty sword?

            Is that even what Marco Polo did?

            Pool games don’t really teach you anything, history, literature or fair play.

            Ian and I are at the front of the line now; Parent Mom and Kind of Lap Swim Kid have gone in ahead of us.

            “Is there room for us to swim laps?” I ask the harried attendant kid at the window.

            He turns the blue and green pool chart toward me, “I can put you in lanes 1 and 2.”

            “Great!”

            He punches my card, Ian hands me my bag, and I head into the locker room. The sounds of “MARCOOOO POLOOOO” ring out from the pool as I step around the huge puddles of water in the locker room and begin to unpack my stuff. 

Giovanni Scorcioni