Daddy Magic

“Hey, Carol, you wanna go for a ride?”

I was getting nowhere fast with Chopin’s Waltz in C# minor. A ride with my father sounded perfect. “Sure, where to?”

“Oh, I thought we could drive down the coast to Dana Point.”
“Bob, don’t forget that you were going to go to the store,” my mom called out.
“Sure, Ruthie, don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten.”

He stood in the doorway, grinning at me as I closed the sheet music and grabbed my sweater. “Can we get some little Hershey Bars and Dreyer’s Vanilla?” I whispered, conspiratorially.

“I heard that!” Ruthie called out.

Giggling, I followed him out to the drive, letting the door slam behind me.

He often took me to Dana Point in those days. Of course, now, I can’t remember exactly when those days were, but they must have been when we were living in Irvine and driving down to Dana Point was a fairly easy trip. We’d sit on the cliff overlooking the sea and he’d tell me all about the rocks. How there were certain layers of rock that he, as a geologist, could read. He'd tell me the names of the layers, how old they were approximately, and how they came to be.

I was fascinated. Not just with the stories of the cliffs, but with his amazing mind. How did he remember all of this detailed information? What kind of brain had that capacity? Certainly not mine. I was still in Chopin Land as I listened to my father lecture. I asked questions, too, of course, but mostly I listened. I just loved to hear him talk. I treasured these trips to Dana Point. I was so lucky to have a father who was a geologist!

“Hey!” I interrupted. “Is that a dolphin out there?” I shaded my eyes and pointed out to sea, a subtle splash had lifted up and then vanished.
“I don’t know,” my father gazed out at the choppy waters. “It certainly could have been.”
“Maybe if we watch real close, we’ll see it again?” I suggested.
“Sure,” he said, grinning over at me. “Maybe.”

And so we sat, in companionable silence, watching the sea churn and dance. “There!” I cried again, “Did you see it?”

He chuckled, shaking his head, “I don’t think so, Carol….but….” He paused for a moment. “Yeah, maybe.” He pointed down the coast, past the purple orange layered cliffs. “Is that it?”

I grinned, “Yeah, I think so.”

Another splash and then it was gone. Was it a dolphin? Maybe or maybe not. But it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that I was here, on this cliff with my father—and it was magic. Not because of any dolphin. Or stories of ancient cliffs.
But because he was here, with me, sharing his time and his knowledge and his love.

“We better get going,” he said. “I hear the Albertson’s calling.”
Giggling, I nodded, rising to gaze out to sea one last time, then turning to him. “I think dolphins are especially fond of Little Hershey bars.”

Laughing, he headed back up the path, “And Dreyer’s Vanilla Ice Cream.”
“With chocolate sauce,” I answered.

“Of course,” he grinned, opening the door to let me in the Mach I as the sea breeze flitted through my sun bleached hair.

Trophy

“This may be completely inappropriate, but why don’t they have some sort of signage requiring that the little ones wear diapers in the pool?”
DL and P chuckle. A pronouncement has been made by the Mayor of Oakland. Even though it sounds like a suggestion.

That’s a good question,” P grins, stretching out on the top shelf of Utopia, wriggling her toes.

“I mean, they don’t know any better.” Sandy sighs loudly as she douses herself with a hefty splash of water. “I take my niece and nephew to the pool. I ask, them, ‘Do you have to use the restroom?’ No, Auntie, we don’t have to go.’ And then sure enough, my nephew lays one on.” Sandy shakes her head, “It’s like he left a Trophy in there!”

They all crack up: P and DL and the random supine woman who’d been resting, quietly heaterized till this point.
“Well, you know what I mean,” Sandy glances around at them all.
“Oh, yeah, of course,” P answers. “It’s just that that was a really funny way to describe it.”
“And while we’re at it, when my pool was closed over the holidays, I had to swim in this pool. And you remember how they had this one closed for weeks to ‘super clean’ it?”

“Yeah,” P answers—she kinda remembers this so she’s not just priming the story.
“And so when I go for a swim here and I swear it’d only been open for 3 hours….”
“Well, a hundred people had already used it by then,” P jokes.
Sandy eyes her for a moment. Frustrated? Why oh why must P always interrupt with her inane exaggerations? Yet she doesn’t say this. Instead she just answers like P was serious. “Well, I think it was not that many.”
“Well, you know what I mean,” P offers sheepishly.

“Yes, I do. I totally do. Anyway, I’m in the pool and I’m swimming down the lane and I’m grabbing big, I mean HUGE hunks of hair in my hands, not just one or two strands, mind you, but big GOBS of hair, as I’m pulling through the water.”

“EEEWWW gross!” P cries with appropriate disgust drama emphasis, but not before noting to herself that Sandy has mentioned this particularly gross pool hygiene story several times before. Hair does get in the pool. P does have to shake off a strand or two every once in awhile and while a nuisance, it's not Gobs, like she often spies in the showers. Which is another story and not one she's going to mention right now.

“And so I ask you, why don’t they require that folks wear swim caps in the pool? I mean c’mon, people.”
“They do at Hilltop,” P says.
“Really?” Sandy perks up for this.

“Yeah, I think so. I know I’ve seen a sign before you get in the pool about how long hair must be tied back or in a cap.”
“Well, see there you go.”
“And there’s a nice visual and directive about using the toilet before you get in the pool too.”
“See? And I bet they don’t have as many pool closures as they do here in Oakland, am I right? Remember how that one summer this pool was closed like every other week because some kid had taken a dump in the pool?”

“It was a Trophy Summer!” P exclaims.
Sandy chuckles, shaking her head, as DL rises and weaves out. The other woman lies completely paralyzed. The trophy conversation old hat by now.

“Okay, I’ll stop complaining now,” Sandy rises too and follows DL out.

P thinks to herself how she certainly hopes that this was just a polite proclamation, the no complaining assertion. For P, without complaining, there’d be no story. Nothing to talk about. Nothing to write about.

Why no Trophy at all without complaints.

Which would be entirely inappropriate, don’t you agree?

AQUA EMPATHY

In all my years of swimming, I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a lifeguard jump into the pool to save someone.
Could that be right?

How long have I been in pools? All my life. Over 50 years. But as I write this, I can’t think of an instance where I actually witnessed a rescue. So, when it happened today, in the mayhem that is the Richmond Plunge of summertime, I couldn’t quite believe it.

The pool was packed. I was swimming in a non-lane in the lap pool. That is the part on the other side of the lane lines that was empty when I arrived, but I was quickly invaded by a large floating shoed couple. They climbed in. He had the requisite bad boy tattoos all over the back of his brown shoulders, big fancy letters spelling out something that was not a word that I knew. She was in her skirt swimsuit. A floatey snake under her ample belly, lolling back and forth in a lackadaisical manner.
I clung to my non lane, hoping that they’d steer clear of me. I was in a mood. The Hilltop Y was closed for who knows what reason. We didn’t even go in, but just headed to the Plunge and stood in the clump of a line as everyone in the neighborhood slowly ambled inside. Little girls in fuchsia bikinis and lime green goggles. Moms texting their teenagers. Dads sighing under the weight of bags filled with towels and other accoutrements.

I stood in the shade, letting Ian wait out the line. He didn’t seem to mind, but who knew? I was in a mood as I said and so I didn’t ask him how he was doing.
Okay, enough of a set up.
I’m in the pool, swimming furiously, still cranky but it was starting to ease out with each lap in spite of shoed couple. I come to the side of the pool to turn and the lifeguard hollers at me.
“What?” I can’t hear him of course. My ear plugs. The din of mayhem: kids screaming, parents laughing, teens shrieking.
He shakes his head at me. Nods to a lane beyond me. I understand that he must be yelling at someone else. There’d be no reason to yell at me. What was I doing except trying to get a swim in?

He’s a lanky Latino. Serious and mad. I see him actually get up out of the chair (something lifeguards so rarely do at the Y), and stride over to the center lane. I don’t think much of it. Just keep swimming. But notice that shoed couple has stopped their lackadaisical progress and are just floating at the side of the pool, staring.
I come to the other side of the pool and then. Oh my god. The Lanky Latino actually jumps into a lane. I stop swimming for a moment, turning toward Tattoo Man.

“What happened?”
“He can’t swim,” he nods at the center lane as the Lanky Lifeguard pulls an elderly Asian man out of the pool.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, I seen him get in. Him and his wife. And she was tryin to help him but he can’t swim. So I tell the lifeguard.”
“Wow!” I float for a moment as Lanky Lifeguard, after pulling the non-swimmer out of the pool, dripping and cranky, is already headed back to his post.
“Is he okay?” I call out to him.
“Yeah, yeah, he’s okay. Just tired.”
“I told you he can’t swim!” Tattoo Man affirms.
“Yeah, thanks for letting me know.”

And I have to think. Would the lifeguard have rescued Elderly Asian Man without Tattoo Man’s promptings?
It goes back to yesterday when I saw Swearing Wheelchair Woman take a stumble in the walking lane. Under she goes, her head caught in the lane line for a moment, before surfacing, blubbering and bobbing. Gloria and another woman are walking in the lane with her and don’t do a thing. I glance over at the lifeguard, who’s busy watching a man and his kid. Another lifeguard, hanging around the office, motions for the lifeguard to come check her out.
He does. She’s fine. But afterwards, I ask Gloria about it. She shrugs. She’s so pissed off at Swearing Wheelchair woman after the Racial Slur incident, that I think she’d let her drown.

Oh isn’t that a horrible thing to say?
But I wonder.
“Did you see Edna get caught today under the lane line?” I ask.
Gloria stares at me for a moment, “Yeah, but I’m staying out of it. That’s the lifeguard’s job.”
I laugh, “Yeah, we’re not medical professionals.”
Yet I have to wonder, don’t we as fellow swimmers owe our aqua brethren the courtesy of at least hailing the lifeguard? Like what happened today at the Plunge.

It was complete mayhem! How can the lifeguards see everything that’s going on?

I have to say that I didn’t help much yesterday at Hilltopia when Edna took a dive. She bugs me so much. What with all her locker room wailing and swearing and her racial slur at Gloria.
Yet she is a human being. And she is a fellow swimmer. Doesn’t she deserve some modicum of aqua empathy?
Yes. And so I vow to be a bit more proactive in the pool.

Instead of just being my own cranky moody self all the time.
I will assist when possible.
As long as it doesn’t involve any mouth to mouth resuscitation.
Well, unless the rususitee is cute.

Quite a Moniker

“Question.”
DL giggles as we take our seats in Utopia.
“What’s so funny?” Sandy asks from her usual supine position on the top shelf of the sauna.
“Oh, nothing,” DL murmurs. “It was just cute how you asked us that right away.”
“Well, I know that Time is of the Essence,” Sandy replies, not looking at the clock.
I grin, thinking to myself how Sandy’s Tour Guide Persona is probably never far from the surface. Time is part of this, I’m sure, but also is the asking and answering of questions.

“Who was Orion?” she asks now. “Was he part of a Greek or Roman myth?”
“Greek, I think,” DL answers. Of course she knows. I’m terrible at the Myths. Always have been. Not sure why. It seems like, being a literary type, that the Myths would be part of my unconscious literary being at least.
But they’re not. So I was glad DL knew who Orion was. Poets are so smart about such things.

“And I also think he was the Archer?” DL continues, making a Bow and Arrow motion to demonstrate.
“Ah, very good,” Sandy nods. “The reason I ask is that my Sweetie’s stepson just had a child and they named him Orion Eugene Constantine. That’s quite a moniker, isn’t it?”

DL and I both laugh. “Yes, it is,” I exclaim.
“The middle name is the father’s first name passed on to the next generation. That’s how he got Eugene. But Orion, I’m not sure how they came up with that. Maybe it’s a constellation that’s in the sky right now?”

“I dunno,” I answer, shaking my head. “I’m terrible at the stars.”
Another woman lying face down on the shelf next to me shakes with silent giggles. I hadn’t even noticed her till this moment since I was so caught up in Orion and his origins.

“My name,” Sandy continues, “was Lorraine Marie. And I was never a Lorraine Marie!” She snorts as we all giggle. “And so at great expense to the family at the time, a family that did not have much money mind you, they changed my name to Sandy and so I only use Lorraine Marie when I’m incognito.”

“Names are so interesting,” I say. “When I used to teach up at Merritt College, I’d have my students do a What does my name mean? writing after reading Sandra Cisneros’ House on Mango Street. Esperanza, Cisneros' feisty protagonist, hated her name and wanted to be called ZZ the X or something snazzy like that.”

“Yes, well, my name was also a family name. Larraine for my grandmother and Frances for my grandfather.”

“My middle name is my grandfather’s name!” I contribute.
“That so? And what is it?”
“Leslie.”
Sandy pauses for a moment, “Leslie, yes, that can be a man’s name. And you, DL, what’s your middle name?”
“Michelle.”
“Michelle. Very nice.”

I space out for a moment, remembering how DL and I had gone to get our passports a couple of years back and they spelled Michelle wrong on her passport with one l instead of two or two instead of one—I can’t remember which, but I do remember what a big headache this was. The spelling of the name.

I spell Orion with two r’s. This is wrong. Later I go to look him up in Grave’s Greek Myths. He’s got quite a story. He’s falls for some maiden, Merope, daughter of Dionysus’s son Oenopion. Oneopion promises Orion that he can marry Merope if Orion slays a bunch of wild beasts, but when Orion does this, Oneopion keeps Merope for himself cuz he’s in love with his own daughter. They love incest in the Myths. And then Orion is blinded. And then he’s in the sky with his bow and arrow. And well, it goes on and on.

What does all of this have to do with swimming?
Well, Orion is the son of Poseidon. And wasn’t Poseidon the king of the sea? So….
Okay that’s a stretch and this blog is too long already.
But….DL’s name is the best: Denise is from the God Dionysus, the creator of wine and pleasure. And Leto is a Greek Goddess, mother of Apollo and Artemis.

DL knew all this in a text later.
See, quite a moniker too.
And Carol is a Christmas song and Jameson is an Irish whisky.
Another moniker worth noting.
If you’re in the mood for song and drink.

But that's an entirely Other Question, isn't it? Nothing to do with Orion, or middle names, or swimming.

DL stumbles out of Utopia, Sandy rises and saunters out. I exit after her, leaving the silent giggling woman alone in the Sauna.

Wonder what her name is? I pause for a moment, poised to ask. But then think better of it.

Sometimes a little mystery is a good thing. Esp. when it comes to a name....

Falling....

“You know! I don’t live here!” Sandy harrumphs as she saunters, naked, back to her locker. The entire room erupts.

“I feel like I should get my money back if you’re not here,” L whines.
“You coulda fooled us!” P cries, giggling as she pulls her pink top over her damp self.
“I seen you the other day and I wanted to stop and talk with you, but then you disappeared!”

The Mayor of Oakland shakes her head, smiling to herself as she tosses Johnson’s Baby Powder under her arms, great billows of gauzy white cloud around her.
DL’s eyes widen in delight. The Oakland Y is a party tonight. Everyone is here. The Mayor of Oakland. The Writer of Oakland. The Utopians of Oakland.

Earlier, L, the Writer of Oakland, had mused about how she needs to let more of those ‘in jokes’ out. She needs to widen her circle. “People keep dying,” she murmurs, smiling mysteriously as she sinks into the jet of Aquatopia.
DL nods.

P swallows hard. Damn. How can L be so blasé about it? Or is she? It’s hard to tell. There’s a mysterious serenity about her that is so attractive and yet…..there’s also this subtle wall that envelops her. P knows that part of this is simply because P doesn’t know her well, and isn’t this always the case with attractive people that you want to know? Yet, she realizes that what L is saying is true. If we don’t tell our ‘in jokes’ to others, if we don’t tell our stories, then these tidbits of narrative will just float away into the ether. And that would be such a shame.

P tries to write down as much as she can. She’s always wondered why she has this compulsion. It’s not like anyone is paying her. But yet, there’s this need, this almost visceral ache, to ‘get it down’.

“P, you must see my shoes!” L commands later, as they’re all rushing to get dressed. She stands up, readying to leave, turning her lovely leg to just the right angle to show off her latest footwear. “You will crack up. And you know, I live to make you laugh.”

Delighted by this life’s purpose, P ventures over to admire L’s Snazzy High Heel Sandals. “Wow! You can stand in those?”
“Oh, sure. These are nothing. Just like an Ace Bandage,” she chuckles.
“So, your ankles are supported like an Ace Bandage?”
“Yup. Just like.” And again that mysterious smile.
P laughs.

“Ah, see? I knew I’d make you laugh.”
“10 more minutes, Ladies,” Beleaguered Y Girl swoops through the locker room, slamming shut lockers and scooping up towels.
“The PA system is broken,” Sandy whispers conspiratorially.
“Really?” DL says. “I knew something was different….”

“ATTENTION YMCA MEMBERS AND GUESTS THE TIME IS NOW 9:55. THE YMCA WILL BE CLOSING PROMPTLY AT 10PM. PLEASE GATHER YOUR BELONGINGS AND MAKE YOUR WAY OUT OF THE FACILITY. I REPEAT. THE YMCA WILL BE CLOSING IN 5 MINUTES!!!”

P glances over at Sandy who’s laughing softly to herself, shaking her head.
DL giggles as they gather up all their stuff. “Nite Sandy,” P calls out. “Have a great swim on Easter Sunday! (Earlier they’d chatted about how the YMCA was closed on Easter—“Well, yes, it is, after all, the Young Men’s CHRISTIAN Association” Sandy had pointed out to P. Duh!)

“That I will,” Sandy calls back, still packing up her bag.
“Where’d L go?” DL asks as they make their way out of the facility. There’s a longing in her voice. Abandonment? Surprise?

“I guess she already left,” P answers. “Too bad. I wanted one last gander at those shoes! They’re a crack up!”
DL laughs softly. She’s in love. Easy to fall in at the Downtown Oakland YMCA.

Public Life Thrives

On the other hand, public life is alive and too well in the city of Richmond. Compared to Santa Cruz, the pool here is spilling out onto the streets. Literally.
“Mommy! Mommy! They’re letting 4 more people in!”

“What’s going on?” I ask Ian, taking another bite out of my Cliff bar. “It’s utter mayhem here today.”
He shrugs. “They’ve got a waiting list going on.”
“Seriously?!”

On the one hand, this is so great. The community uses the pool and thus, hopefully, it won’t be on the chopping blocks when the City Budget comes up again. Richmond is a city known for its high crime rate, high poverty rate, and poor school system. Yet when it comes to the pool, it seems that all this tragedy is left out on the street. The Plunge is brimming with exuberant energy---were these the same kids that sold drugs on street corners?

I had a feeling not, but then, who knew? The pool was a place, perhaps, where the tragedies of Richmond could be set aside for an afternoon.

Which is a good thing, right? Yet, today, when I run into Francine at the Richmond Y (yet another thriving Richmond establishment), she was anything but enthusiastic about the Plunge. “Oh!” she shakes her head, the French accent stronger in her dismay. “Yesterday, I go to the Plunge and it was a Zoo! They had a waiting list. It was insane!”

“Yes, I heard,” I nod sympathetically. “I spoke with a woman in the locker room and she said that it was the end of spring break. That all the families were taking advantage of the last Sunday of their vacation.”
“Maybe….” Francine sighs loudly, as we let a sullen woman pass between us. “I am on the waiting list. And they cannot tell me how long it will be. 20 minutes? Okay I can wait. But 30 minutes? An hour? No it is not possible. I come back here and it is empty!”
“Really?” I shake my head in wonder. “What about the Special Olympics? They said they were gonna be taking up the pool on Sunday mornings for 3 hours.”

“I don’t know,” she muses. “All I know it that The Plunge. I will not go again on a Sunday afternoon. Though this Sunday, it is Easter. Remember we go there last year?”
I pause, thinking. “Oh, yes, that’s right. We did. Will you go again this weekend?”

She sighs again, the French accent echoing through the locker room air. “I do not know…..I will see. I will call and see when they open.”
I tell her how it’s 1 pm now. How Ian and I had gotten there right at 1 and so hadn’t had to sign up on the waiting list. She notes that the Plunge used to be open at 11. Maybe this is the reason for the mayhem? Two fewer hours to pile all the Richmond swimmers in.

Sullen Woman sulks by us again. “There is nothing that we can do,” Francine stares pointedly at her receding back, then shakes her head her head, resigned. “People like that, It will come back to them.”
I laugh, “I have a story about her.” But it’s too gross and I’m too tired to tell it I think to myself.
Francine eyes me speculatively. Then grins. “I will see you Sunday.”
“Yes, Sunday.”

For what better way to spend Easter than to participate in the Public life of the Richmond Plunge? Esp. if it's in the company of an opinionated French woman.
Oh la la!

HARVEY WEST POOL

“That sort of decision is way above my pay grade.”

Santa Cruz Park and Rec Man sits musing in his mini truck in front of the closed doors of Harvey West Pool. He’d been telling us about how the pool was only open now in the summer. How a private company had taken it over from Parks and Rec when 30 workers had been laid off in 2009. If it were up to him, he’d have the pool up and running all year around like it used to. But it wasn’t up to him. Hence the pay grade remark.

I nod. It’s all about the pay grade isn’t it? If you’ve the power, you’re paid the grade. And if you don’t? Well, you end up like Rec Man, musing in front of the closed pool doors, wistfully wishin' for days gone by when Harvey West Pool was a thriving year around pool.
I’d called first, of course, before Ian and I headed over to the park. The recording said the pool was open from 11-2:30, M-Thurs, but I was dubious. The recording was dated Summer 2013. I didn’t have a good feeling about it, but then I thought, well, it’s Santa Cruz. Maybe no one changed the recording from a year ago.

And when we’d pulled up to the park, a beautiful spring day full of green lawns, blossoming trees, and jr. high school kids on a field trip, I was excited. The pool! Harvey West! I couldn’t wait to dive in.

The front doors were locked. No one around. There was a sign saying to enter the pool from the back, so I tromped around the chain link fence, bothered a guy reading Clive Cussler. “Excuse me, do you know anything about the pool? Is it open now or not till the summer?”
He’d eyed me suspiciously. Clive was more important than my pool question, yet he tried to answer me nevertheless. Maybe so I’d leave him alone. Telling me that “I’m not sure, but I think it’s only open in the summer.”

Incredulously, I had exclaimed, “But I know I used to swim here year around!”
“You could try to ask over at the little kids’ pool,” he offered, lying to me. “There’s usually someone over there giving swim lessons. Maybe they can help you.”
I glanced across the fenced in pools. There was no one over there, but I dutifully left him to Clive and tromped over there to an exercise in Futility.

A sporty girl strode by. “Excuse me, do you know anything about the pool being open?” I asked her.
She grinned, “Nope.”
“Are you a swimmer?”
“Nope.”
“A runner?” I ventured.
“Hey! Yeah! How’d you know?”
“You’ve that athletic way about you!”
“I like your red glasses,” she exclaimed as she trotted past me. I noticed she had red sunglasses on too. “I like yours too!”

But no info on the pool.

And so, back to Ian talking to Rec Man and the woes of low pay grade status. “Yeah, they got rid of the diving board. They have swim lessons in the summer, but it’s not the same as it used to be. I’d love it if it got back to that. I love working at the pool.”
He shook his head sadly for a bygone pool era.

I too hankered for times gone by. Those days where Owen Hill would meet me and Sue Marsh after our swim; we’d stroll down the grassy hill, joking and laughing. Go back to the duplex. Make some nachos and watch Star Trek as the Fruit Factory lumbered crashingly on.

Harvey West Pool wasn’t what it used to be. At least not now.

But you never know. The economy could bounce back. Pools could be given more funding. The Santa Cruz Parks and Rec would thrive and Rec Man could once again bask in Pool Employment Glory.

“I could just hop the fence!” I grin over at Rec Man, who glances at me nervously now.
“I’m not gonna go there,” he replies, pulling his hat over his eyes.
I laugh. “Just kidding.”
He nods, takes off, the little cart put put putting away down the hill.

“Wanna go check out Polar Bear Ice Cream while we’re here?” I ask Ian.
“Sure,” he grins.

If you can’t swim, there’s always ice cream. Mexican Chocolate. Or Peanut Butter Honey. Or Bear Paws.
Yes, a couple of Bear Paws would fill the void of a thwarted swim. At least for now.

FLIP FLOPS

“Excuse me…?” Striped Bikini Girl stares at me shyly. Then points to her feet, clad in nondescript beige Ross-type flip flops. “Do you know? Is it okay?”

I smile, encouraging? Not really, I’m freezing and tired, but had noted her when I’d gotten out of the shower. So cute in her red and blue striped bikini with the string ties. I hadn’t seen string ties since 9th grade.

“The….” She searches for the correct vocabulary. Where is she from? Not Richmond. Maybe China? Vietnam? Korea?

“Flip flops!” She grins, proud. “Do you know? Are they okay to wear to pool….?” She searches again for the vocabulary. Pool deck wasn’t rolling off her tongue. I’m reminded of the time we stayed in Venice. We wanted to go to the local public pool. The landlord had been very insistent on our bringing pool shoes to wear on the deck. In Venice no bare feet allowed on deck.

Today, though, I honestly had no idea. It’d been a long journey to get to the Richmond Plunge. The pandemonium at Hilltop Y with the Special Olympics mayhem taking over the normally idyllic Sunday morning pool time. My complaint taken down by Jasmeeen. “Can I lodge a formal complaint?” about how the Special Olympics workout from 10:45- 1:45 hadn’t been on the schedule.

Hello here we go again! It’s not Rocket Science to make a schedule! And 3 hours! Shit. I’m all for every type of ‘abled’ ,disabled or differently abled body to swim, but during my Sunday mornings?

Can’t they figure something else out?

In any case, the Richmond Plunge had been glorious. A lane to myself. The tall Natatorium ceiling with its pipes and mushroom lights; the birds a plenty mural of the lake at point Richmond with a swimmer ready to take the plunge; the little girls in pink polka dots whispering behind their lime green goggles. (Yes you can whisper behind goggles if you’re 7 at the Richmond Plunge with your best friend)

And now, Bikini Flip Flop Girl. She was utterly charming. I had no clue if it was okay to wear flip flops out on the deck, but I couldn’t imagine the slacker lifeguards giving a shit about her footwear, and so I smiled, and lied: “Oh, I’m sure it’s OK!”
She beams, nods quickly, glances down at her feet and then turns and skips out. Her strait dark ponytail swinging down her slender back.

And I think. What the hell was I so upset about this morning? Here I am. At the Richmond Plunge. Lying to charming young bikini girls about footwear regulations.

Life is good. Isn’t it?

But I still wonder if I’ll hear anything back about my formal complaint I lodged.

Though at this moment, I don’t really care. Because life at the Natatorium just can’t be beat.
Though they could use a couple of hairdryers. And a sauna. And…..

GOD SAVED HIS SORRY ASS!

PP glances disdainfully at the layout of drying clothes in a prime Utopia spot—an entire corner of the top bench. Then notices Green Faced Witchy Woman and knows they belong to her. Decides not to say anything, but climbs up behind GFWW to plop down next to Sandy.

GFWW gives her the Evil Eye. PP smiles sweetly at her as DL takes the lower bench.

“Hello, Ladies,” Sandy says.
“Hey, Sandy,” PP replies. “You back at your pool yet?” Sandy’s regular ‘club’ pool, and we can all imagine how divine that would be, has been closed for several weeks. She’s had to navigate the terrors of the Oakland Y’s pool in the meantime.
“Yes, thank goodness,” Sandy sighs. “I was about ready to kill someone the other day.”
“Really?” PP grins, eager to hear the story of course.

“Tell, me, P,” Sandy continues, “why is it that people can’t stay on their own side of the lane? I’m swimming with this guy, he’s doing the breaststroke and every time he passes me, he kicks me. Not hard, mind you, but what the f….!”
Sandy shakes her head as P nods in agreement. “Yeah, I know what you mean. The lanes are super narrow here. But that doesn’t have to matter. When I pass someone and I’m doing the breaststroke, I just glide till I’m past them.”

“Exactly!” Sandy exclaims. “So do I! But this guy…..I tell you, I was ready to have ‘words’ with him. He got out just in time….”
P nods.

"God saved his Sorry Ass!” Sandy harrumphs.

P and DL both crack up, DL’s eyes wide with delight behind her wire rimmed glasses. GFWW heaves her massive mean body up and lumbers out of the sauna. Leaving her drying clothes on the prime space still.
“Yeah, well, he was lucky,” P agrees. “I had the same thing happen to me at Hilltopia. This man kicked me so hard when he passed me doing the breaststroke that I had to get out of the pool. That was a Man Kick that felled me!”
DL laughs.

“I think you came up with that term, DL, ‘Man Kick’?”
“Yeah, I think I did.”
“Well, I’m sorry that happened to you,” Sandy shakes her head, “but I tell you, this guy was just out of line. I’m glad to be back at my pool.”
“I bet,” P nods as DL rises and stumbles out of the sauna.
“Oh, there goes the Canary!” Sandy exclaims.

“Yup,” P agrees, “must be almost time to go.”
“That it is, that it is.” Sandy sighs, taking a large slug of her water and then pouring the rest over the top of her head.
GFWW lumbers back in. Gives P another Evil Eye. What the hell is up with that? P wonders. What had she ever done to her? She was even being nice today by not commenting on her drying clothes that were breaking all the rules.

Later DL tells P how she gives GFWW the Evil Eye back. Sicilian Style. Once again, P wishes she were Italian. No words would be necessary. Just one look and wham! All would be well!

Soup, Sauna and Hair

“There’s this woman who brings her soup into the sauna, the part I don’t like is that she brings it in a glass jar, leaves it while she’s doing her workout, and then when she returns, it’s nice and hot and ready to eat.”

“Eeeewww, GROSS!!!!!” P exclaims, thinking how food should not be mixed with extreme heat and naked women.

They’d all just been in the sauna a few minutes earlier where Sandy had announced that it was 200 degrees. P had thought it seemed a bit on the hot side, but liked it. DL, upon hearing this extreme heat proclamation, had zoomed out, leaving PP to hear about Sandy’s foray into the Y’s pool since her club was closed.

“They close this pool to clean it, for how long? 10 days? And then what? I go for a swim and catch hair in my hands while I’m swimming.”
“Hair in your hands?” P asks, thinking about how disgusting this is. “Like big clumps of hair?”

“No, no, just a strand here or there,” Sandy chuckles. “But still. At my Club the signage is very clear: Showers Required. Caps Mandatory. I have no idea why they don’t enforce the wearing of caps here!”

P nods, “Yeah, that’s strange. They’re so strict about everything else.” P thinks about all the times she’s tried to swim in the walking lane and been immediately admonished in loud lifeguard public humiliation fashion to move over to lap lane. “NO SWIMMING IN THE WALKING LANE!” even if there were no walkers in sight.

They won’t let you swim in the walking lane, but you can lose your hair all over the pool?
Evidently pool hygiene is not nearly as important as lane enforcement.

“It’s not nearly as strange as it may seem,” Sandy continues the heat food commentary. “I had a mailman who’d put his lunch on the engine to warm it up.”

“You’re kidding!” P exclaims.
“No, I am not,” Sandy methodically pulls her stuff out of her locker and packs it into her gym bag.
“I’ve heard of that,” DL confirms.
“Seriously?” P can’t contain her incredulity. “But doesn’t the food fall off the engine while the mailman is driving around delivering mail?”
“He had a system for it, evidently,” Sandy continues. “I’ve known lots of people who do this.”
“What was he warming up?” P asks. “Eggs Benedict?”
They all laugh as the Y girl comes whizzing through collecting towels.

“Natalie,” Sandy commands, “go into the sauna and see what the temperature is.”
Natalie stops her towel retrieval and obeys without question. For if the Mayor of Oakland asks you to do something, you do it, right?
“I’ve been needling them for weeks about how it was too cool,” Sandy whispers conspiratorially to PP and DL. “And now, it’s too hot. I just want her to see it for herself.”

DL and PP both nod. The Mayor of Oakland has her methods. She knows what she wants and she knows how to get it.
If she wants the sauna hotter, she just has to ask (for a couple of weeks—actually faster results than Jean Quan). If she enjoys a woman’s soup warming, she just has to observe and let it happen.

And if she wants the hair strands cleaned out of the pool?

P is certain that it will only be a matter of time before this situation is eradicated by a strict cap wearing policy. She can just picture some innocent family, mom, dad, brother and sister, ready to hop into the pool without caps.

“NO SWIMMING WITHOUT CAPS ALLOWED!” A lifeguard will holler. “SWIMMING CAPS MANDATORY!!!!”
The family will have no choice but to retreat to either don their caps, or head back upstairs to play in the child watch area.

Oh the power that the Mayor of Oakland wields! It’s only a matter of time till that glass jar for the soup will be replaced with plastic.

If that’s what Sandy meant about not liking the glass that is.

The Next Mayor of Oakland!

“Sandy should be Mayor of Oakland,” DL announces, floating down Broadway after an evening of Utopia.

“That is an excellent idea!” P exclaims. “She would make a perfect Mayor of Oakland.”
DL nods as she unlocks Moondoggie’s passenger door, P climbing in for a last ride in DL’s 13 year old chariot.

Settling in, P muses about all the reasons Sandy should be Mayor of Oakland.

1. She is a member of the downtown Oakland YMCA
2. She is a swimmer
3. She has opinions

4. She used to be a travel agent
5. She knows how to navigate Utopia’s strangeness
6. She wears aqua and lavender leisure suits
7. She feels guilty about having a maid
8. She has a sense of humor that surprises
9. She is open to anyone and everyone
10. She vacations in Mexico

11. She has danced at her cotillion
12. She drives a big white car
13. She knows where to shop
14. She has a Greek husband/partner
15. She knows when to be silent
16. She wields a wide spray bottle
17. She reads the New Yorker on the Treadmill

18. She narrates stories with aplomb and panache
19. She thinks DL and PP are fun
20. She is Oakland

So, yes, DL is right. Sandy would make a great Mayor of Oakland.

P wonders if they can start a write up campaign. Sure, Jean Quan is powerful, but can she lay claim to all of the above? P has NEVER seen her at the Oakland Y, and frankly, a regular membership should be a requirement for any mayoral candidate. Why, you may ask?

The downtown Oakland Y is a perfect microcosm of what Oakland could be: it’s got ‘community’ and ‘heart’ and ‘health. Everyone gets along at the Y---it’s a diverse and divergent membership.

Plus, it has a pool. And if the Mayor of Oakland were a swimmer, like Sandy, well, then, all would be well with the city.
For doesn’t water solve all problems? P has never seen any of the ills that plague Oakland in the pool, with the exception of some minor violence against rubber duckies by naughty children.

So! Sandy for Mayor of Oakland!
DL and P just have to find out her last name before the next election.