Dead People

“Hey!” I hold the shampoo and conditioner bottles aloft, waving them in the air to get their attention. “Did you guys leave your stuff in the shower?”

            They’re on their way out. Three teenage girls, long dark hair dripping down lacy tank tops, tight cutoffs that proclaim, “I’m available”. They barely glance at me, an old lady ready to take a shower, faded flower suit, tangled hair dripping, navy City of Richmond face mask muffling her holler.

            “No,” one of them answers. They turn, prancing and giggling out of the locker room.

            I shrug, think how I could just take these pricy toiletries. All milky and floral. But, I’m so honest, right?

            I set the bottles down outside the shower area, head into the concrete square, where 6 shower heads all point toward the concrete floor. Picking my favorite one next to the far wall, I turn on the shower, sighing at the water’s soothing heat.

            Rubbing shampoo into my wet hair, I work up a lather to expel the chlorine. Then, rinse, grabbing my conditioner.

            One of the lifeguards has entered the shower arena, dressed in her red shorts and black Lifeguard T, her long pale legs blinding me with their beauty. She’s standing at the entry to the shower, peering around, checking out the corners of the shower. I wonder what she’s looking for. Maybe the left shampoo and conditioner I had found earlier?

            “What are you looking for?” I ask her.

            She pauses in her search, then without making eye contact, but still peeking around the blank corners of the shower, she says softly, “To be honest…Dead People.”

            “What???” I exclaim.  Her soft voice is muffled behind the ubiquitous masks that everyone still has to wear. Did I hear her right?  Did she say Dead People? Maybe she said Red People? Or Lead People? Or Dread People?

            None of these possibilities make sense. But neither does Dead People. How could Dead People be lying about in the corners of the shower? I mean, I wouldn’t have gotten in the shower if there’d been a dead person in the corner!

            I shake my head, trying to go along with what I think she said. “Well, I’d hope that if there were a Dead Person in the locker room, that someone would report it.”

            “If they knew about it,” she says, still scanning the floor of the shower. How could they not know about it? I wonder.  And what kind of dead person would be in the easily seen corners of the shower? They would have to be the size of an ant for her to be scanning this closely. Miniature Dead People?

            “Sometimes, there might be a Dead Person in the bathroom stall and no one would know,” she continues.

            “Really?” I can’t keep my incredulity out of my tone. I mean, c’mon, a dead person in the bathroom stall?

            “Has this ever happened?” I have to ask.

            “Well, no…” she admits. “But it’s something we have to check for at closing.”

            Part of the lifeguard’s job is to check for Dead People in the locker room at the end of their shifts? I mean, I suppose this is a possibility. There are a lot of old ladies at the pool, doing their water walking and noodle floating. I suppose one of them could come into the locker room, go the bathroom and then drop dead from all that aqua activity!

            “Well, I’m glad you’ve never found anyone dead,” I offer, wondering how she would cope if she did find a body. She’s like 12 (aka 17). If she found a Dead Person, wouldn’t that damage her young mind for life? The trauma of finding a body at the Richmond Swim Center would be something she’d never recover from, right?

            Though I suppose Lifeguards have the training to deal with bodies. After all, they might be called upon to pull a body out of the pool in the line of duty.

            But discovering a Dead Person in the shower?

            I dunno. It seems above her paygrade, frankly. Though when you’re 17, you don’t think about such things. They tell you this is your job and then you do it. Or at least most people do. I mean, I wouldn’t. If I were a lifeguard and they told me I had to go check the locker room for Dead People at the end of my shift, I’d say, “Hell NO!”

            She finishes her scan, satisfied that no Dead People are in the shower with me.

            Turning, she heads over to the bathroom stalls. I hear her opening and closing each stall door. Is she looking in the toilet for dead People? Tiny Floating ladies who’ve fallen to their demise in the most unseemly of ways?

            “We close in 5 minutes,” she announces on her way out.

            “Yeah, I know.” I shove my suit in the spinner thingee and press down. The loud whirring fills the concrete room.

            She floats out, leaving me alone in the locker room. An unusual circumstance. Usually, the place is teeming with women and girls and babies, chatting, screaming, and hopping around the room.

            I dress hurriedly, trying not to think about Dead People.

            But before I leave, I can’t help myself. I bend down to take a look under the bathroom stalls. Is that the shadow of someone in the far stall? No….it couldn’t be….

            I back up, grab my stuff, and hurry out into the bright Saturday light. It’s not my job to find Dead People, I think, as I shiver in the breeze. I hear an invisible bird tweeting in one of the Fuzz Trees, see a lone gull circle over the top of the Swim Center Roof. I plop into the car, slamming the door shut, and watch as a family loads all their gear into the minivan, the laughter of one of the kids floating up through the air.  

    

           

           

           

            

The Collective Unconscious for Swimmers

“How was your swim?” We’re the only two left in the locker room, so it seems a bit strange to just get dressed without acknowledging each other. Granted, talking to strangers while dressing could be a bit intrusive, but I was pretty sure I had spoken to this woman before. So, according to me, she wasn’t a total stranger. And her response, as you’ll see, supports my assessment.

            “Great!” she proclaims.

            “I know, right?” I agree, slipping on my velour pants, their warmth cozy and familiar. “There was no one swimming laps today,” I continue. “I got my own lane. Did you?”

            “Oh yes!” She’s beaming now. “You know, I was on a business trip and I didn’t have time to swim. There were meetings and appointments and so…. I just felt like something was wrong, you know?”
            “I do! If I don’t swim at least 3 times a week, I feel awful.”

            “Yes, it is the psychology, right?” She pauses. “I even had this dream where I am trying to swim but there is barely any water in the pool…” She bends down and makes a line across her shin. “The water is only about this deep!”

            “Oh my god!” I exclaim. “I have the SAME dream!”

            She doesn’t seem to register my astonishment but continues on her dream narration as people will do when recounting their dreams. “And when I try to swim, the water, it is too shallow and then it gets more and more shallow and pretty soon there is no water at all!”

            “Me too!” This time she smiles at me, nodding. “I have this dream all the time. I am swimming and then the water gets shallower and shallower and pretty soon I am trying to swim on dry grass. It is very frustrating!” I start to laugh.

            She joins in, now smearing thick white cream all over her face. I’m distracted by this, but try not to stare. “It must be some sort of anxiety,” she offers.

            “Yes, that makes sense. You know, our psyches are all connected, the collective unconscious and Jung…”

            She nods, but I can see that she’s already thinking of the next thing she wants to say, “And I have this other dream, where the toilets are all overflowing and so so dirty!” She wrinkles her creamy face in disgust. I don’t tell her I have this same dream too. It’s getting too weird. I mean, I have always pooh poohed this collective unconscious. It just seems to woo woo to me. But today, when I had always believed that I was the only one who had this disappearing water swimming dream, the similarity was too much to deny.

            It makes sense that swimmers would share this anxiety of not being able to swim in their dreams. But for it to manifest in the same way?

            It’s a bit eerie.

            Jung writes about the collective unconscious with the example of the shared symbolism of the sea: “The sea is a symbol of the collective unconscious, because unfathomed depths lie concealed beneath its reflecting surface” (p. 122, Jung, Dreams, 1961)

            Could the disappearing water be a symbol of swimmers’ collective anxiety about not being able to swim? The water is too shallow. The swimmer still tries to swim. But as she swims, the water disappears until she is trying to swim on dry land.

            And the dirty overflowing toilets? Oh, hell, I don’t want to go there. The collective unconscious of bathrooms? Symbolizing what? Ugh!

            “Is the Plunge open?” she asks now, abruptly changing the subject.

            “Uh, yeah…” I’m mystified, wondering why she’s asking about this. Is it because the Plunge’s shallow pool feels close to this dream? I remember the first time I swam in this pool, I thought my arms were going to scrape the bottom, but of course, they didn’t.

            “They were closed because of vandalism,” she continues. “Someone took all of the chairs and equipment on the deck and threw it all into the pool and then they took a fire extinguisher and sprayed it into the pool!”

            “Wow! That’s terrible. I had no idea. It was open this last Wednesday.”

            “And no weird smell?” she asked.

            “Nope, none that I noticed.”

            She nods, smearing the cream for its final layer. Then starts to pack up her stuff. I want to talk to her more about dreams, but the time is up. The lifeguards have already started barking at us: “You Ladies almost finished in there???”

            “YES!” I holler back. “We have 3 minutes.”

            Dream woman smiles warmly at me as she heads out, “Bye bye!”

            “Yes, bye, hope you don’t have any more no water swimming dreams!”

            We both laugh. I work to gather up all my stuff, but there’s still a mom and her kid getting dressed. I have time.

            Stumbling out into the parking lot, the bright sun stunning me for a moment, I scan for Ian. He’s in the car, talk radio on, the door open.

            I call to him. He heaves himself out, strides toward me, “I had the most interesting Collective Unconscious Swimmer Experience,” I tell him.

            He grins, “Really?”

            “Yes, there was this woman who….”

The Vitruvian Man

 

The Vitruvian Man, Leonardo da Vinci

“You sure are super speedy!” I gush, paused at the wall after my workout. Super Swimmer Man is stopped too. It’s 10:58. Only 2 minutes left before the pool closes here at Kennedy High.

He smiles. Handsomely. Humbly. “Well, I have Big Legs! I used not to use my legs so much. When I swam in high school, I just used my arms, you know?”

I nod, understanding. I have that tendency to mostly use my arms too. I’d read somewhere that swimmers move through the water using 80% arms and only 20% legs.

“….and so,” he continues, on a roll… “I started using my big legs more and wow! What a difference! I really felt like I was moving through the water at a much faster pace.”

“Well, you certainly did today,” I take off my cap, dunk my head under the water, preparing to climb out. “You were lapping me every few 100 and I was using my fins!”

He beams. “I do okay, I guess.”

Is he being modest or fishing for more compliments? He must know that he’s a super swimmer. After all, he does have the Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man tattooed on his back, between his shoulder blades.

As I was kicking on the kickboard, he passed me (of course), and I saw this tattoo. At first, I couldn’t quite make it out. It just looked like a big circle with a figure in the middle as he zoomed past me. But then the next time he passed me, I looked more closely and thought, Hey! Isn’t that the DaVinci Man? What does that mean?

When I talked with my Artist Mom later in the week and told her about it, she said that DaVinci was drawing a man with the circle to show the perfect proportions for a man. That maybe this was DaVinci himself. Or one of his lovers. (Did she say that? Or did I say this?) Then I looked up the image on ye ol’ google images and found out it was called the Vitruvian Man. I asked my mom what this meant, but she didn’t know. I looked up the word Vitruvian and it had something to do with scrolls and architecture according to the often-confusing Wikipedia. (A good place to start, but like I tell my students, not a credible source) Needless to say, the definition seemed to have little relevancy to my mom’s description of DaVinci’s purpose behind the image.

Vitruvius Architecture, World History Ency

I wonder why Super Swimmer Man had The Vitruvian Man tattooed on his back? Was this his inspiration to work on his own proportions? That is, if he has ‘big legs’ is he working on having Big Arms too? And a Big Torso? And a Big Head?

Hah!

Maybe he’s got this last proportion covered.

Back in the pool that day, he gave me a winning smile, “1 minute left. I’m gonna do another lap before they kick us out! See you next time.”

And he was off, churning up the water like a big-legged motorboat.  The Vitruvian Man covered in a frothy wave of white-water splash.

 

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 

Jocularity

 “Enough with the jocularity! Let’s swim some laps!”

Perched on the deck, I glance over at Ian, who hasn’t had enough jocularity. He’s still grinning. Liv is floating over in the water in the lane next to No More Jocularity Woman. I can see Jocularity in Liv's eyes.

And, me? I’m delighted, but yes, ready to swim some laps.

How did we get to this point? Let’s go back 5 minutes.

I arrive on deck at Kennedy High Pool, eager to dive in. The water glimmers blue-grey in the mid-morning light. Each lane has at least one swimmer in it already, so I ask to share lane 2.

“Did you want to join me?” The swimmer stops, raising her goggles off her face, and smiles beatifically at me. This is unusual. Normally, swimmers will just keep swimming, maybe giving a nod of acknowledgment that you want to join their lane. But no one stops or interrupts their workout.

“Yes,” I smile at her as I try to stuff my too-long hair in my fuchsia cap.

“Come on in,” she invites. “The water’s fine.”

I dip my toe in. And she’s right. The water is fine. Warm and calm. Unlike the Plunge where the week before I shivered for 45 minutes before heaving my icicle self out of the pool and rushing for the lukewarm showers.

Today, Ian sits next to me, ready to dive into lane 3. Net Feet Man is his partner, who true to swimmer form, barely acknowledges Ian’s presence, but does move aside to let Ian swim.

“This pool is so beautiful!” my prospective lane mate exclaims.

“Have you not been here before?” I ask.

“Oh, yes, but not for a long time. I love the wooden beams and the light and....”

“Do you see the webbed-footed friends?” I point up at the opaque ceiling where the gulls have lighted. Their round shadows and cute webbed feet overhead. Their little shadows bounce and then settle, dark puddings above us.

“Oh, my! Isn’t that something!” she exclaims. “I’m glad you pointed that out.”

“Yes, sometimes they’re not here.”

“When the roof is open,” Ian contributes.

Liv is floating to the side, grinning ear to ear, enjoying the show.

“Well, I never!” my swim mate exclaims. “I usually go to the Plunge. I live in the Hood.”

I nod. Is the neighborhood by the Plunge referred to as “The Hood?” I think of the hood as someplace sinister and dark. Or at least in the Iron Triangle here in Richmond. The Plunge is in Point Richmond, a tony enclave of Richmond. I’d hardly call it The Hood.

            Today, I just nod, smile, as I start to put on my mask.

            The gulls above flap excitedly. Another group lands, creating many more pudgy shadows. We all laugh.

            “Well,” she says, “enough with the Jocularity. Time to swim some laps!” Pulling her goggles back on, she turns and starts a meandering pace down the lane.

            I nod at Ian, who’s still grinning. Liv has started down her lane too.

            Diving in, I can’t help but laugh. Jocularity is such a good word. And, yes, today, it’s a good place to dive into, here at Kennedy High Pool.

Lifelong Swimmer

  

“How long have you been swimming?” Alice asks from under the thrust of the shower, tossing her turban on the wall behind her.

“All my life!” I exclaim.

 Even though I’m on my way out of the shower here at Kennedy, I can’t help but talk about swimming. Standing naked in the wet concrete square floor of the showers, wringing my too-long hair out, I continue. “I think I was thrown in the pool when I was three!” I joke. And then the memory hits me, visceral, real. I’m back at the Sunset Hills Club. In Hacienda Heights. The pool stretches out in blue splendor, huge as a football field. Or so it seemed to me.  Other kids are splashing and jumping in the water. I dive in? Was thrown in? Could this be? All that comes back to me now is sinking into the delicious buoyancy of the water, the blueness and the bubbles enveloping me. Then I pop up to the surface, treading water with my little legs, giggling and ecstatic.

            I’m home!

            I don’t tell Alice all of this of course. We are on a strict time limit here after the pool closes. 15 minutes or else?

            Or else what? They’re gonna throw all the old ladies, in various states of undress, out into the parking lot?

            But I digress. I ask Alice the same question, “How long have you been swimming?”

            Of course, it’s not a short answer. Alice likes to chat. “Well, let’s see. I used to swim in high school and college, but then I didn’t swim while I was working and raising a family, and then I was laid off when was that? 12 years ago? Could it be? Yes, 12 years ago. And so, I started swimming again then.”

            “12 years is a long time!” I call out from behind the wall, out of the shower now, still wringing my hair out. Fumbling with my mask, trying to get it behind my ears before I swirl the towel up and around my head.

            “Yes, it is!” she calls out, laughing loudly.

            I had told her how I really suffered during the Pandemic when all the pools were closed. How happy I was that Richmond had opened up their indoor pools a year ago. And even with the hassle of the masks and the limitations of the hours and lane assignments, I was so grateful to be swimming again. It really is something that I can’t live without.

            Or I can live without it. But it’s not pretty. I am cranky, cranky, CRANKY!

            When the Pandemic began and the pools were all closed, I didn’t swim for 90 days. 90 days!!!! All my life, I hadn’t gone more than 10 days without swimming and that was because of my hysterectomy! My doctor had told me I couldn’t swim for 6 weeks, but when I pressed her, she said I could go after 10 days as long as I was careful. “No one is going to kick you, right?”

            And no one did. I swam slowly and carefully. But I still remember how at home I felt in the water.

            That first dive into the pool at the Sunset Hills Club at the age of 3 or 4 or 5 or whatever young age it was delivered me into a watery world that  I haven’t left since. Now, 60 years later, I’m still swimming and while I can tell the difference because of my age—I’m slower, it’s harder, I get tired---I am still swimming.

            When I’d arrived today, the young woman at the desk exclaimed, “It’s almost your birthday!” after looking me up on the computer.

            “Yes, it is,” I said. “I hope I make it.” Why did I say this? It was a weird thing to say. I guess it’s because there is so much death around me. A friend and colleague of mine from FFU had died a couple weeks ago. I knew she was sick, but it was still a shock. The last time I had seen her it was before the Pandemic. She was fine. We were laughing and hanging out in the Learning Lab at the library, joking about who knows what.

            And now she’s gone.

            I miss her.

            We just don’t know how long we will be on this planet. But as I joked with the young woman today, “I’ll make it to my birthday as long as I keep swimming!”, we both laughed.

         “Yeah, you will!” she assured me as only a 20 something can.

            Alice is out of the shower now, sitting on the bench, beginning the drying process. Asks me if I’m retired.

            “No, I wish I were. Then I could just swim all the time!”

            She cracks up, rubbing her old tired feet as I pack up my stuff.

            “30 seconds to spare!” I holler, hefting my swim bag into my arms and grabbing my fins.

            Alice’s laugh floats after me as I march out of the locker room. The sky is a bright blue outside, the wind whips from the Diablo Range, and I’m starving as I head to out to the car, grinning to myself as I unlock the trunk.