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.