Hostile Lane Takeover

Okay, I’m the first to admit that I’m a Lane Hog. I don’t like sharing and I make it clear to anyone who wants to enter my lane domain. And, yes, I’m a little sneaky about it. I hog the middle of the lane, not quite blatantly, but you know, enough toward the center black line to make it loud and clear that NO ONE is welcome. My methods are obvious, but usually effective. I rarely share a lane, esp. at Hilltopia.

So, today, when I arrived on deck at the usually calm Sunday lap swim hour and every lane was full, I swore under my breath. Or not really, I swore out loud: “Shit.”

Ian had already grabbed the last empty lane and was casually putting on his red fins. I glared at him.

There was, however, an empty lane next to him. The dreaded ‘walking lane.’ Now, at Hilltop, the lifeguards are so low-key (or asleep) that they don’t care if swimmers ‘swim’ in the walking lane. (Unlike Oakland where the lifeguards will leap off their high chair, blow their whistle, holler, “NO SWIMMING IN THE WALKING LANE!!!”and send offending swimmers scurrying for cover!) So, today even though I avoid swimming in the walking lane at Hilltop I decided to risk it. If a walker got in, then I’d just scoot over and swim with Ian.

I climbed in. The water was luscious and calm. My new mask was NOT leaking. I swam one lap, turning at the wall, and headed back, thinking, okay, someone will get out of one of the other lanes and then I can swim over there. Till then, I’ll just make sure I watch out for the ‘walkers’.

Then.....a Square Woman entered my arena. She was, well, square. You know what I mean? As wide as she was tall, this woman in her skirted black and white suit from 1977, now stood in front of me. Naturally, I thought she was a ‘walker’ and I needed to move to another lane.

But, Lane Hog that I am, I stopped and asked her, just to make sure. “You walking?” I said, trying not to pause too long at the wall as she stared at me, seeming to comprehend my query.
“No,” she said, “I’m just looking for a lane to swim in.”

“Oh, yeah, well, it is crowded today,” I responded, thinking, whew, she’s not a walker, she’s gonna move to another lane. I will continue to get to swim in my own lane.

I swam to the other side, turning at the wall and saw her start to march toward me. Her squaredom swaying side to side in massive ownership of the lane.
Damn. She is a ‘walker’ after all. I’ll have to move.

And so I did, just popping under the lane line and joining Ian.

I was cranky. But what could I do? Ian didn’t seem to mind my joining him, but he’s not the type to say if he did, so…..I swam a couple of laps and then noticed, to my amazement, that the ‘walker’ was now swimming. In MY lane!

Shit. She’d just walked one lap to chase me out of the lane and then she took over. I couldn’t believe it! How goddamn sneaky was that? Is this what they mean by passive aggressive? Or was it just plain aggressive?

Or was she just an underhanded bitch?

I decided she was the last and seethed as I continued to share a lane with Ian while Square Takeover Woman blithely swam by herself down the center of the lane with no sharing in sight.
But then, hah! I real walker entered the situation, donned in walking shoes and no cap or goggles. Lane Takeover Woman was forced to abandon her stolen lane and SHARE with someone else on the far side of the pool. And it was supremely splashy and crowded over there where she was forced to swim now. Hahahahaaaaa!!!!

I grinned to myself underwater. Vindicated, I smiled over at the current real Walker Woman who smiled serenely back at me, completely oblivious to her role in my victory.

When Ian got out and I finally had a lane to myself, I swam down the center, directly over the heavy black line on the pool’s tiled bottom. Not even trying to be subtle about my Lane Hogging abilities.

Damn if I was gonna let anyone share with me for the last 10 minutes of my swim. And no one did or dared. My hostile don’t share my lane vibe was on high.

Yet, part of me has to hand it to Hostile Lane Takeover woman.

She pulled one over on me.
And frankly, that’s hard to do, esp. with a seasoned Lane Hog with no qualms about what’s rightfully hers!

Cat Videos

“I wonder where everyone is,” Sandy shifts subtly on the top shelf of Utopia.
“I know, right?” I say. “I had an entire lane to myself in the pool for almost my whole swim. That never happens here at the Downtown Oakland YMCA!
Sandy snorts. “Yeah, I hear you.”

“DL thinks that it might be so empty round here cuz of the basketball game,” I share.
“Oh, yeah, I bet she’s right!” Sandy nods, as DL grins supine on the bottom shelf of Utopia. We don’t usually have the spaciousness of just the three of us in Utopia and DL is taking full advantage. “Isn’t this the game that decides it all?” Sandy asks.

I shrug. I have no clue. I have a vague, very vague, idea that Oakland’s Wonder team, the Warriors, are playing but beyond that, I have no clue. Basketball is not my thing. Too much running back and forth in wild frenzied violence, whistles blaring, elbows felling. It’s overwhelming for me after a few minutes. I’d rather watch The Young and the Restless, with Victor Newman in prison for enlisting the services of a Peruvian Twin to impersonate Jack Abbott who was being held captive on a deserted island by his schizophrenic ex.

And Sharon! She thought she was pregnant with Dylan’s baby while she was in the asylum at Fairview, but then unbeknownst to her because of heavy constant medication prescribed to her by her evil psychiatrist, she didn’t really have a baby—it was actually Nick Newman’s stolen dead baby and so….well you get the idea. The ball goes back and forth and up and down the court in a soap opera, but it’s much more surreal. And hilarious.

But back to Utopia and Basketball, DL shakes her head in answer to Sandy’s claim about tonight’s game being the decider. “No, not tonight,” DL says.

Sandy nods, then sinks back against the wall after peering at the clock. 9:40. We’ve still got 20 minutes before they kick us out. “I like basketball,” Sandy announces. “Now, baseball. No way. My father loved baseball. Why he’d be so excited when they had something called a ‘no hitter’ and I was bored to tears!
“Me too!” I exclaim. “I want the games where the score is 17-15.”
“Exactly!” Sandy nods. “Otherwise, it’s such a yawn. I will drink those big beers. Scarf down some nachos. But the action? Put up some cat videos.”

DL cracks up, her entire body shaking in mirthful delight. “Put up some Cat Videos. That is so great!”
“Yeah, what a genius idea,” I concur.
Sandy shrugs. “I tell you, baseball is such a snore. And football, fuck that shit. Pardon my French. But basketball, I can get behind that sport.”

DL nods, grinning in Cheshire cat charm.

“I’ll see you both out there,” Sandy rises, ambles out of Utopia.
I’m still laughing. Cat Videos! At the A’s game? I’m there!

Now if only we could get them to show The Young and the Restless at ballgames. Will Sharon tell Nick that his baby isn't really dead? That the baby she has is, in fact, his? But no, wait. It's not really Nick's baby, it's Adam's! And Victor Newman knows this secret! But will he get out of prison in time to divulge this before Sharon runs off, kidnapping her own child that isn't really hers?

Baseball and soaps! Another Utopia for me. Well, besides my own lane at the Downtown Oakland YMCA.

Attack of the Green Apples

TWINS!!!!

I notice their rambunctiousness first. Their splashing hilarity. They jump into the shallow pool with complete guffawing abandon , racing running to the other side of the pool. Taking up the entire lane. Two of them.

I’m tired. At the end of my swim here at Hilltopia. A long day and now a long swim and I’m ready to get out soon. But can’t ignore these two. They demand my attention.

They have the same reddish hair, arranged in the same half ponytail style. They both wear the same maroon tank suit, suntanned shoulders bouncing over the white water they create.
It takes a few laps for me to realize it: Twins! Swimming twins! Cool. I love it that they both swim, they both splash, they both laugh uproariously . Over what? There doesn’t seem to be anything going on. Except for their own show .

And maybe this is what it’s like for twins. Who needs the rest of the world when you’ve got yourself to hang out with, swim with, play with, eat with…..

I remember when my sister and I were ‘twins’ at the Fiesta Inn pool in Cabo Del San Jose. We had the same suit on. A turquoisey tropical number. We had the same haircut and tan. I am a couple of years older, but hell at our age, who can tell? So when someone at the hotel pool asked if we were twins, we just nodded and said, ‘Yes, we’re twins.” And for the rest of the entire trip, that’s what we were. Twins. A completely different identity from being a non twin. An individual.

We were a unit. We did water ballet with twin like accuracy. We sipped our margaritas with twin like abandon. We sang little swimming songs in twin unison.

Twins.
It was cool.
And so tonight, when I see these twins, I remember when my sister and I posed as such. And how fun it was. We fooled everyone. And were delighted, in prime twin fashion, with our ruse.

Later, in the locker room, the Twins are in my spot. Of course. I joke, tell them that my locker is right behind them. The crack up. Move out of my way. “This always happens,” I say. “We all end up in the same spot. “
“We just take up a lot of room “ they laugh, unembarrassed at their twin space needs.

Down the aisle, Little Ecuadoran Grandma sees them and grins in delight:
"You are Twins?"
"Yup,” they both exclaim.
"That is SO sweet."
"Sometimes." The crack up. This is an old joke. Or a new one. It doesn’t matter. Twins get their jokes without having to check in.
And so we all laugh as I continue to move my stuff out of their way over to the next aisle. Getting dressed, I hear them laugh. Still boisterous after their swim. Reveling in their twindom.
And I think, hell, I wish I had my twin here tonight. To share a laugh. To take over a lane. To love and cherish.

Corny right?
But twins are special. And I do know this. Well…..almost…..

Mr. Safeway

“One of these ladies will know the name of that plant!”

Regal in her rhinestone studded turban, she commands out into Utopia. DL and I settle on the bottom shelf, squeezing in below the two beauteous Asian Women swimmers. Are they a couple? Sisters? Friends? Hard to tell. But there’s a woman duo bond between them. They share a lane every Wednesday night. Both swim smooth and easy. Though one is phenomenal. Always ending with a flawless lap of butterfly.

Tonight, I’d felt so sorry for her. Standing on the deck, waiting for a lane as I tried to navigate my own lane of swimming mayhem with the mother son giggling dyad. “Is he coming back?” I’d asked the mom, beaming proudly as her son climbed out of the lane, clomping over to the kickboard stack, fins still on. “Oh, yes. He’s coming back,” she gushed, her eyes glistening with pride and sparkle. She then proceeded to take off in a leisurely breaststroke down the center of the lane, completely blocking my ability to pass her or swim at my own speed. Flawless Butterfly Woman stood forlornly watching. I couldn’t invite her to swim in my lane as much as I’d rather have her than Breaststroke middle of lane mom situation.

But it had all worked out in the end. The flock of screaming kids got out of the family side of the pool. The lifeguards opened another lane for Butterfly woman and her friend. And now, here we all were in Utopia with Plant Questioning Woman taking up all the air.

I glance over at the piece of cactus lying on the towel next to a trying not to giggle round woman. “It’s Aloe, I think,” I offer.

“THAT’s it! Aloe! I used to have that plant in my garden. Mr. Lowes and Mrs. Lowes. Mr. Safeway and Mrs. Safeway. Poooo Mr. Safeway....I used him. I abused him. I ignored the shit outta him. Pardon my French....."

Everyone is laughing now. I haven’t seen DL giggling like this in ages. Next to me, I can see her belly rock in wicked mirth. Her glasses nearly falling off her nose.

But…..what the hell is Safeway Woman talking about?

“I name all my plants after the stores wheres I got them. Lowes. Safeway, but oh, Mr. Safeway! He grow all crooked. I don’t offer him no stake in the ground. I just let him alone. And now….”

She shakes her head. It’s all so sad. Mr. Safeway musta come to a bad end. Which makes sense to me. Given how much I detest Safeway. I almost have a nervous breakdown every time I walk in that place. The lights. The beeps. The crowds. The low blood sugar. (I always go after swimming and am starving)

So, to me, it makes sense that if you name a plant after Safeway, well, hell, it’s not going to fare very well with such a moniker. It will wilt. And whither. And tilt. And tither.

“And I love me the Safeway down in Fremont. Ummmm. Ummm.. That Safeway, you know it? It’s off Fremont Blvd on the corner of (I space out, nodding, having no experience with the Fremont Safeway whatsoever). And then the one in Castro Valley. I tell you that one. It has a real good nursery. I think that’s where I got Mr. Safeway and Mrs. Safeway. She doin okay, but Mr. Safeway…..”

She heaves a giant sigh. The demise of Mr. Safeway weighing on her.


Then, slowly, the women rise and head out. The time now 9:43 PM and counting.

“Oh! It is Time to GO!” Safeway Woman announces. “I don’t think they like it if we get out of here late, now do they?”
“Nope,” I agree, moving aside so the Beauteous Asian Swimmers can sneak past me. Sigh. Why couldn’t I have shared a lane with those two tonight instead of mom and son?

But we did all share something in Utopia, right? The giggles were contagious. The energy in Utopia frothy and fun. This is why I continue to go through all the hassle to get here. The stupid lack of parking that brings me to tears. The mayhem in the pool that threatens my sanity. The ickee bathrooms with wet gunk on the floors.

Utopia and its women. This is why I come. And tonight, thanks to Safeway Woman, who seems to be a new addition to the scene, we all can share a giggle, a laugh, or a look of astonishment.

And bemoan the abuse of Mr. Safeway?

Not me, no siree. Mr. Safeway got what was coming to him! After all he's put me through!
Amen!

Space Hogs!

“Cj! You know that Guy in the weight room who sings really loudly to himself with his headphones on and sweats a ton? I almost was gonna scream! He was singing and sweating on the machine next to me, flicking sweat and….” DL narrates a minor rant.
“That is so disgusting!” I cringe.
“I know, right? You know him?”
“No, I don’t think so. I think I’d remember.”

“Yeah, you would. Cuz he was so THERE! Doesn’t he know that other people don’t care about him? That he isn’t God’s Gift? That his singing and his muscles and his sweat is so repulsive to those around him?”

I chuckle. “No, he has no clue. People like that never do! They just take up So Much Space! The same thing happened to me swimming tonight. Not the singing sweating part, but the taking up space part. I’m in my lane, happily swimming along without sharing, which NEVER happens here, and this Guy gets in and doesn’t tell me ahead of time and I almost crash into him.”

“How is he supposed to tell you?”
“He’s supposed to wait on the deck and then when I turn at the wall, let me know. It’s not Rocket Science. Otherwise, I have no clue. I can’t see him from 30 yards away. I did see some form from the opposite end, but my mask is all foggy and I thought he was getting in the lane next to me. I can’t see!”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” DL nods.

I shake my head, remembering the Anorexic Woman who had taken great pains to wait on the deck and ask to share my lane but then I’d been a Rude Hogging the Lane swimmer and pointed out to her that she could swim in the empty lane two lanes over and she had eyed me sorrowfully in confusion, pointing to a signage on the deck that said, “MASTERS”. I had snagged the lifeguard, “Can’t she swim over there?” And he had nodded, taken the sign away and she had her own lane. Better for all. But the point is, a woman asked me. A guy? They just dive right in and barrel me over. Run me down. If I hadn’t seen him in time, OUCH! He woulda hurt me and he probably wouldn't have felt a thing, you know? Cuz guys are walls of testosterone, like that guy DL was talking about with all the singing and sweating and not giving a shit about anyone else around him.

I’m out of breath now just writing about it. The fury of Guys taking up too much space. There must be some psychology around it, right?

Yet, to be fair, I have had my share of too much space women. I'll never forget the time I tried to share a lane with this woman who told me that 'By the way, just to let you know, I swim crooked.' And she did. Again, too much space. But then, she did warn me, right? I guess it's just part of the human condition.

Space Hogs!

“Well, I’ll have to look for the Sweating Singing Guy next week,” I laugh.
“Oh, yeah. We’ll make Eye Contact and you’ll know,” DL grins, climbing into the Geo, pulling on the seat belt.
I turn the key, the Geo sputters on, and DL sighs, as I pull out onto Webster street to ferry her to her car.

Is She Listening?

“I had this dream!” DL exclaims. “I’m so glad I’m remembering to tell you.” I nod, excited; I love to hear her dreams. “In my dream, I look down at my hands and my hands they are newspapers….” Her eyes glisten, the thrill of headlines at her fingertips. I glance behind me, at the naked woman, methodically smoothing lotion into her chocolate brown skin. Is she listening? To the Dream narration? Here in the downtown Oakland YMCA locker room? “And I make this movement,” DL continues, a slow dance with her hands. They are ballet in the air. “I go to throw my newspaper hands at the door. And they make that loud thump against the closed door….Like, you know, when your paper is delivered?” I nod. I know this sound. It is delicious. It means that your newspaper is here. Your day can start. Make some coffee. Feed the cat. Read the paper. “But when I throw my newspaper hands at the door, they aren’t newspapers anymore. They are fins!” Her eyes glimmer, sparkle. It is a miracle! I glance back again at the Chocolate Lotion Woman behind us. She is dressed now. Gathering up her things. Checking her phone. Are her earplugs in? How can she listen to music when a dream is being narrated?

I shake my head, baffled.

“What does it mean?” DL asks. I grin, widely. “It means your hands are the news. Your day is full of swimming. And miracles abound!” She laughs, delighted, as Chocolate Lotion Woman floats past us, a tiny smile playing at her lips.
Was she listening?

Having a Problem

“It’s a good thing the pool is only 4 feet deep….. But come to think of it….. if you’re having a problem, you’re having a problem.”
Pudgy Peach Shaped woman clucks her tongue as she dries off her pudding limbs, pasty white and dimpled in the locker room glow.

We’d both just witnessed a distress situation with the lifeguard here at Hilltopia. One minute, she’s sitting in her big white chair, spaced out and staring. The next minute, there’s a call over the intercom “Attention. Attention! Blah blah blah and blah blah blah to the Pool Deck. To the Pool deck!”
I had heard the intercom’s blare, registering the Pool Deck location but nothing more. I was busy swimming my laps and had my earplugs, mask and cap on, deep into the rhythm of my workout when the call rang out.

But I wasn’t so engaged that I didn’t witness the three staff members appear on the deck, crowd around the lifeguard and then escort her into the little lifeguard staff room at the back of the pool area, closing the door solidly behind them all.

What had happened to her? Was she okay? She had seemed fine before when I’d asked her to please close the door—“It’s so cold” I’d complained. “Sure, no problem,” she’d answered, and then closed the door, blocking the cold January wind from whooshing over the surface of the pool.

This lifeguard was one of the ‘nice’ ones who would close the door for me. Some of them I wouldn’t broach the request anymore; they gave me such a hard time. But I digress.

Today, NiceGuard had seemed fine. And now, evidently, she wasn’t. Had my asking her to close the door had something to do with her collapse? But how could that be? I mean, is it always about me? Was I responsible for her distress?

I felt worried for her and stopped at the edge of the pool to ask her replacement about what had happened.
“Is she okay?”

He nodded, adjusting his knee pads. I guess he’d been playing soccer or some other sport that required such guards and had been called into to fill NiceGuard’s place while she was indisposed.
“Yeah, yeah, she’s fine,” he answered me as he climbed up onto the white chair, settling in with the large red rubber lifesaver on his lap.

Okay? I thought. Well, what could I do? If he said she was okay, then I guess she was, but if this were really the case, why was he here filling in for her?

I continued my swim, feeling sorta worried about her as she had disappeared into the little room with one of the staff members, Asian in Charge Woman. After about 20 minutes, Asian in Charge woman emerged and exited the pool area. But still no sign of NiceGaurd.

What was she doing in the little room? Was she passed out on a cot in there? Or worse, on the floor? What else could it be but some sort of health issue? Yet Sub Knee Pad Guard had said she was okay.

It was all very mysterious.

I glanced over at Ian who was still swimming—had he noticed anything? Hard to tell as we were both in the thick of our workouts. And Pudgy Peach Woman was just floating at the edge of the pool in the center lane, seemingly oblivious. It was only afterwards, in the showers, that she’d made the comment about having a problem.

Ian got out and left. Pudgy Peach Woman starting a slow float down the lane. I had a few more laps to go when NiceGuard emerged from the little room. She’d been in there about 45 minutes. Resting?
She took back up her position from Knee Pad Guard who exited the deck. I finished my last few laps and then started a few minor stretches before getting out.

But I was too curious. I had to ask.

“Are you okay?”
“Yes….yes….” She had moved off her chair now and was leaning out the door of the lifeguard room, half in half out. What was up? Was there someone in there that she was keeping watch over? Or was there some sort of fan or something that was blowing on her to keep her from passing out?
“Was there a problem because I asked you to close the door?”
“No…no….I’m okay,” she assured me.

Still, she didn’t offer any explanation. So I had no choice but to leave without my curiosity satisfied. Pudgy Peach Woman was curious too; hence the exchange about having a problem.
And it’s true. Even if the pool is 4 feet deep, if you’re having a problem, you want the lifeguard to be alert and aware. Ready to rescue.
And if she were having a problem, well, this could be a problem, right?

Later, on the ride home, I asked Ian if he’d noticed the NiceGuard situation and what he thought. He hadn’t noticed. So I explained briefly and asked him what he thought had happened to her.
“Maybe she had to report an incident about a crime or some other incident that was confidential.”
“But then why did the others have to be called down in the middle of her shift? There weren’t any other swimmers, just us and Pudgy Peach Woman,” I argued.

“Maybe it was something to do with a situation of abuse or….” Ian was a dog with a bone. The more he speculated, the more ludicrous the ideas. I had to laugh as none of his suggestions made any sense in the context of what I’d witnessed. But I joined in.
“Maybe she’s pregnant with her sister’s husband’s secret love child, had a bout of morning sickness, and had to go into the little room and lie down to recover.”

Ian laughs. “Yeah, that’s probably it. She’s pregnant.”
“I watch a lot of soap operas,” I joke.
But frankly, it wasn’t really a joking matter. Whatever the situation had been with her had been serious enough to take her off duty for almost an hour. How was it that she was fine enough again to watch the pool?
As Pudgy Peach Woman had said, “If you’re having a problem, it doesn’t matter how deep the pool is.”
And I have to agree. You don’t even have to be in the pool to have a problem.
We all know that one, right? Even if we’re not pregnant with our sister’s husband’s secret love child.
Though that certainly would add to it……wouldn’t it?

CRAMPS!

“Excuse me? Ma’am? Oh… Ma’am?”

I’m putting on my shoes, tired after a difficult swim. (I’d had to swim in the walking lane and then share a lane and then the water had been just a tad chilly and my mask had leaked and my shoulders and neck hurt slightly and I was tired and….)

Yet, now swim over, I’m warm and dressed, my back to the locker room where the Ma’am hailing voice is coming from. The voice is vaguely familiar, yet doesn’t know my name. Yet, of course, there are many women here at the Hilltop YMCA that I ‘know’ but not by name. And the 'Ma'am' address? I've given up caring about this anymore. It used to make me feel, 'old'. But now, since I am old, I don't care. Maybe age does have some advantages!

In any case, today I turn and behold AIDS Breast Milk Swimmer. I’d dubbed her this years ago when she told me in all seriousness that breast milk given to AIDS patients cures the disease.

Today, I doubt she remembers telling me this if I were to remind her. And besides, what difference does it make other than an internal moniker of my own?

She’s distressed. Wet and limping from the pool. Her pretty purple tie die Speedo wet and sticking to her dumpy belly. Her short grey curls dripping with tiny drops of chlorinated water. Her eyes wide and round, frantic around the edges.

“Am I in your way?” I ask, thinking that I was blocking her locker access here in the prime corner where everyone wants to be.

“No, no…” She shuffles over to me. “Excuse me for bothering you I just want to ask you do you know why I get a cramp in both my legs….”She eyes me earnestly.

What? Am I the Cramp Expert? As a matter of fact, I used to be. But not the kind of cramps she’s talking about. I used to suffer horribly every month from cramps; excruciating pain that kept me in bed and even out of the pool. That period (pun intended) is thankfully over now, but the memory of the pain still comes to me in dreams albeit rarely with the advent of The Change.

“Is it because I don’t drink enough water? Do you know?”

I shake my head, “Did you not drink much water today?” Hell, how should I know if water deprivation and leg cramps are related? I have no clue. The only time I’ve gotten cramps swimming is when I wear wrong shoes all day and then when I get in the water, sometimes my feet cramp up. It’s strange and painful with the toes actually curling inward toward the bottom of my foot till I stop at the side of the pool and massage it out.

However, I’ve never gotten cramps in both my legs. That would be some really wrong footwear!

“I drink only one bottle.” She holds up a large purple plastic container to show me. I admire her identical match with her suit but don’t comment upon this. Instead I tell her that that seems like quite a bit of water, but is it less than she usually drinks.

She nods, “Yes, and today, I had to get out after only 35 minutes. I wanted to swim for 40 minutes, but the pain was too much. I just wondered if you knew what caused the cramps.”

Again I deny any knowledge cramps causation. If I had my phone, I could google it like the rest of the world but today, I’d left the phone at home. Who needs it in the pool anyway?

“I don’t know what causes the cramps,” I tell her, sympathetic. “But they sure are painful. I know!”

She nods, sadness oozing out of her wet pores. I can tell that not only is she in pain but cutting her swim short has caused her much consternation. I get that one! If I don’t get my whole swim in, for whatever reason, I’m super cranky! It’s usually because of some Y related situation: pool closure because of fecal matter or a birthday party of 50 screaming 9 year olds suddenly jumping into the water with gleeful splashing pandemonium.

Cranky!

But I’ve never gotten out of the pool because of cramps and so this really sucks and I feel sorry for AIDS Breast Milk Woman.
“Maybe if you go into the sauna it’ll help?” I suggest. “And then when you feel better, you can finish your swim?”

She brightens a little. “Yes, that’s a good idea. I did do 35 minutes though.”

“35 minutes is great!” I proclaim. After all for whatever reason I’m the swim guru for the day. And why not? I’m here all the time. I swim a lot. Why wouldn’t I know the answer to the cramp question?
Yet, I didn’t and I still don’t. Of course, now that I’m at the computer, I could easily google it. But why bother now? It’s not like I can help her and even if I had known the cause earlier what good would that have done?

I suppose her idea that she hadn’t drunk enough water was part of why she asked me. If I’d said, Oh, my! You need to drink more water and then the cramps will disappear, she coulda done so and voila finished her swim.

But alas, I didn’t think of this. And she may be right. Water is the answer. It is for most things if you think about it.

“I will try the sauna,” she nods, turning to head toward its warm embrace. “Thank you.”
“Sure, I hope you feel better. Those cramps are painful!”
“Yes….yes, they are….”

I watch her purple self lumber down the aisle and open the sauna door. “Como estas?
“Como estas?!...”
And the sauna chat ala Español begins. Maybe she’ll find the answer to her cramp question in another language?

Or maybe she’ll just sink into her familiar Spanish community here at Hilltopia and forget, at least for a moment, how the wretched cramps cut short her planned 40 minute swim.

The Last Swim of the Year, Dec 31st 2015

She zooms past me. A sleek spray of her fuchsia suit amidst the aqua. I’m a poky plodder in this Encinitas YMCA. Everyone is young, fast and beautiful. If there were a Swimmer GQ, they’d all be in its pages.

Miss Fuchsia would be the centerfold.

I was in awe.

She lapped me every few minutes. I stopped keeping track of how many times, but knew she was there, in my peripheral watery vision, zipping up and down the lane.

Then….wham! She’s comatose. Motionless. Floating and then sinking quickly. Her legs and arms are deathly still. What had happened to stop her flying through the water so suddenly? Heart attack? But she was so young and beautiful. This didn’t seem possible. Drugs? But would such a specimen partake of foreign substances in her beautiful body?
It hardly seemed likely.

The lifeguards spring into action. Whistles blowing. 3-4 of them diving into the water with the stretcher. Pulling her lifeless body out of the water, her porcelain limbs eerily still after their furious strokes and kicks just moments before. I watch as they drag her out of the pool. Lay her flat on the deck. Begin resuscitation efforts.

Hanging onto the side of the pool, I’m not the only one who’s stopped swimming. There are a number of us watching the horror before us breathlessly.

Then I spot one of the lifeguards, a dark haired gangly beauty, who motions at me and others hanging on the wall. I can’t hear what she’s saying at first. Earplugs. But she shouts louder, waving us away, “It’s okay. She’s okay. It’s just a drill.”

Just a drill? Shit.

I thought I’d just witnessed a sudden mysterious drowning situation on the last day of the year. Wasn’t there a way to notify all of us swimmers that we weren’t really party to deadly pool event?

Apparently not. And I suppose this makes sense for them. If we’d all been told there was going to be a lifesaving drill today, then the lifeguards would know too and then couldn’t be tested on their ability to go from totally spaced out to totally saving lives in 10 seconds or less!

And of course, I was so relieved that she was okay! Damn! What if I’d actually seen a woman drown on this last swim of the year at the Encinitas YMCA? What would that have meant? I mean besides the obvious loss of life.
That 2015 was drowned and gone?

Later, after Fuchsia Drill Girl had jumped back into the pool, finished her swim and was hanging out at the edge, I had to say something (of course).

“That was really scary back there....." I begin.
She smiles, exposing perfect white teeth below her soulful hazel eyes.“I’m glad you’re okay," I finish.

“Yes, I work here. The lifeguards have these drills 4 times a month to keep in practice.”

I nod, taking it in. Do I mention how scared I’d been that I thought she’d almost died? Or that there must be some way for the YMCA to forewarn swimmers that a drill is taking place so we don’t all freak out?
Nah, what’s the point? I’m only visiting after all. It’s not like this happens at the Oakland Y or Hilltop. At least not that I’m aware of.
Though maybe it should.

Instead I grin, “You’re a really good actress.”
Beaming, she shakes her sun streaked locks, “Thanks.”

She lifts herself easily out of the pool, grabs her towel from its hook and saunters off to the locker room.

I stare after her for a moment, then shrug. "Happy New Year," I call out to her.
She turns back and winks at me.

.....Nope. I'm making that up. But wouldn't that have been grand? Especially after what she put me through! Leave it to the YMCA to make my last swim of the year one I'll never forget.