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. 

Our Authoress

            “Excuse me, but do you know any girls ages 7-9?” She’s been staring at me from corner of the locker room for several minutes as I was getting dressed, her pale eyes peering over her Covid mask. I had seen her before in the pool, here at Kennedy and also at The Plunge, but she wasn’t someone who had stuck in my mind.

            We’d never spoken before.

            She’s holding out to me one of those plastic square baskets that usually hold pencils, crayons, pads of paper and such for kids. In it sits a slim white book with an aqua and purple mermaid on the cover.

            Before I can answer her, she begins her spiel. “I’ve written this book. It is for girls ages 7-9 and it teaches them how to expand their vocabulary and reading skills.” She reaches into the basket and pulls out the book, holding it up for me to admire.

            I grin behind my mask. (Can people tell? This is another limitation of the ongoing COVID plague---communication is so mired behind masks—both clarity wise and expression wise.)  “Wow, that’s really cool,” I tell her now. “I don’t think I know any girls that age. The girls I know are a little older, like in the 10- or 11-year-old range. I teach piano and....”

            “You do?” She nods, low key and intense. There’s something about her that borders on the unstable.

            Writers. What’re ya gonna do?

            “Yes,” I continue, people seem to always be impressed when I mention I teach piano. “But because of COVID, the lessons have dried up.” She nods, sympathetic. “And the girls are older now.... Who is your publisher?” I ask. Why do I ask her this? I don’t tell her that I’m a writer too. But this is in the back of my mind. If she found a publisher for her Mermaid Book, maybe she knows about publishing.

            “It’s self-published,” she murmurs. And I think, of course. Not that there’s anything wrong with self-publishing. In fact, it’s something that a lot of established authors are doing nowadays. And even before it became easier, authors like Sandra Cisneros self-published her classic, House on Mango Street.

            She puts the book back in its little basket, eyeing me sadly for a moment, before moving on to the next woman in the locker room: “Excuse me, do you know any girls ages 7-9?”

            Lime green sweatered woman beams, “Actually, yes I do....”

            And a transaction is made. Success!

            Alice sits on the bench, valiantly trying to pull on her pants before the 12:15 get out of here ladies shout from the lifeguard. She turns now and grins at me, sans mask: “Sally! She’s Our Authoress” she proclaims, laughing heartedly.

            All the women join in. It’s the day before Christmas and everyone is in a festive mood. Time to celebrate.

            Sally smiles. I can tell even behind her mask. It’s her honor and privilege to be the Pool Authoress.

            I wish I knew some girls 7-9 to give her book to. Part of me thinks of lying. Going over to her and saying, “You know, I forgot. I do know a little girl who is 7 and she would just love to read your book!”

            “LADIES!!! TIME TO LEAVE!” The lifeguard hollers at us from the hallway.

            “We’re going as fast as we can!” Alice shouts back, and again, laughing heartily. It’s all a big party.

            I gather up the last of my stuff, swim mask, cap, suit, towel, lock and cram it into my bag. “Bye ladies!” I call out. “Everyone have a Happy Christmas!”

            “Merry Christmas to you, Carol!” Alice hollers after me, her laugher following me out into the hall.

                  

                             

            

Reverie

 

“Do you know Eileen?” Maud has been staring at me while I’m getting ready for the pool. The locker room here at Kennedy is quiet for the moment. It’s just the two of us. I have no clue who she’s talking about and tell her so.

            “Nope, don’t know any Eileen. But this isn’t where I usually swim until after the Pandemic. I swam up at the Hilltop Y.”

     “Oh!” She’s sitting on the narrow bench in the corner, her brightly colored mask barely muffling her speech. In mid undress, her enormous white breasts hang in full glory. I can’t help but stare. What would it be like to carry around such appendages?

            I get back to the conversation, “They closed that pool up at Hilltop.”

            “Did they?”

            “Yup....”

            “I swam there once and had such a frightening experience!” she proclaimed, pulling on her avocado green swim shirt, the enormous breasts now encased.

            “What happened?”

            “This woman....oh, it was horrible!” she pauses for drama or to put on her swim shoes.

“I was swimming along and you know how you can get into a Reverie.....”

            I honestly don’t, but I do see how some swimmers are in their own dreamy worlds. I just nod in agreement.

            “....and so, I was swimming along and my arm went under the lane line into the next lane, barely touching this woman. And she just stood up and hauled off screaming at me!”

    

    Maud shudders at the recollection. I wonder when this was. Maybe the woman was me. Lord knows I’ve screamed at plenty of clueless swimmers while at the Y. I don’t recall screaming at Maud. I think I’d remember her.

            But maybe not.

            I don’t tell her that I used to scream at Reverie Swimmers. I mean, I get it. Swimming can be a dreamy meditative experience for some, but hell, you have to pay attention. You’re not the only one in the pool. Esp. at the Y.

            “I never went back there!” Maud shakes her head, slinging her lime pool bag over her shoulder. “I was so upset!”

            “That’s too bad,” I tell her, but think, gosh good thing she didn’t go back. Her and her Reverie!

            “OH! I am so HAPPY to be here!” she proclaims, waddling out of the locker room.

            I agree with her, waiting a moment to follow. I still keep the 6-foot Covid distance. Or try to. At least on land.

            In the pool is another matter. Esp. if the swimmer next to you is in her own Reverie.

           

 I hum Robert Schumann’s version as I march out to the Natatorium. I am SO happy to be here! And, as I walk out onto the deck to survey the scene, I spy Maud, happily walking in the shallow end, chatting a mile a minute to another woman.

            I pick a lane far away. Grinning as I pull on my cap and mask. A woman stoops near me to pick up her pale pink sandals. “I’m grabbing your lane,” I tell her.

            “Good timing,” she smiles, her mask still in her dripping hands.

            I hop in. Feel the chill of the water and then dive under the surface. It is a dream today. Maybe I do experience a reverie sometimes?

            At least today, I do....

 Tiffany Poon Plays Reverie

The Pink Towel

“Ugh! Wretched Wind!” I slam the car door, plopping down on the passenger seat of Ian’s car, throwing my swim bag on the floor in front of me. 

“Yeah, it’s more than a little breezy,” Ian comments, master of understatement. 

“You think?” as I pick up my water bottle that has fallen out of the tossed bag. Sighing, I think to myself how much the wind bugs me. It makes my hair wrong—all staticky and sticklike. It makes my skin wrong---all dry and prickly. But most of all it makes my brain wrong. I just feel like screaming! I refrain. 

 “Maybe they’ll close the big doors at the pool to keep the wind out,” Ian offers. 

 “No way,” I shake my head. 

Ever since COVID, the pools have to keep all the doors and windows open for ventilation. So, even though we’re indoors, it can often feel like we’re outside, the wind gusting into the natatorium and whistling lustily over the pool’s surface. 

And, sure enough, after arriving at the pool with only 57 minutes left to swim, I note the doors wide open. The air is cold and brisk, esp. when clad in only a swimsuit. I spot lane 4 open and hurry to plop my fins, kickboard and pull buoy on the deck in front of the lane to claim it. I’ve got my hot pink towel wrapped around my shoulders---a futile effort to stave off the cold. As I bend down to set my water bottle down, a huge gale of wind comes whipping in through the open doors and before I can stop it, my towel is off my shoulders and floating over the pool.

 

Hot pink floats over the turquoise water for a split second, and then, down down down it drops. In horror, I watch it land on the surface of the water and float for only a moment before quickly soaking up the water and sinking to the bottom of the pool. There is something almost ethereal about it. The way it had floated over the pool, hanging there like a fuchsia magic carpet, in slow motion, before swoosh! Down it sank, gravity pulling it inextricably under the water. 

 There’s nothing I can do. 

Jose, the overly friendly lifeguard saw the whole thing happen. He comes running over to me, “WOW! Carol, I’m so sorry! Man....” He runs and closes the door. A little late now, but I appreciate the sentiment. 

 Beautiful Super Swimmer woman dives under the lane, “I’ll get it,” she calls out, reaching down to grab the pink mass. “It’s heavy!” she exclaims, heaving it out of the water and handing it over. 

 “Thank you!” I tell her, taking the towel from her, its heft a mighty soaking log of fuchsia. 

Now what? I try to wring it out, but it’s so full of water I just lay it over the metal bench. How the hell am I gonna dry off after my swim? I mean if it were summer, I could maybe get away with the paper towel approach. Last summer at the Plunge I’d forgotten my towel one day. I’d just shrugged it off. It was warm and I had my red sweatshirt that I didn’t really need on top of my long-sleeved shirt. I’d just used it to dry off, even wrapping my hair up in a crooked red turban before walking out into the mild July day. But today? I needed the sweatshirt to wear over my shirt. It was cold. And, using it for a towel just didn’t seem like a plan. 

I couldn’t worry about it all now. The clock was ticking. Only 53 minutes now. I’d just have to swim and worry about how to get dry later. 

 Did it even occur to me not to swim? 

 Hell no! 

 Liv was in the lane next to me; she’d stopped to watch the Pink Towel show. “Did you see that?” I asked her.

“Oh, yes,” she nodded, her yellow snorkel bobbing up and down.

 “I don’t know how I’m going to dry off.” 

 “Can’t you call your towel delivery service?” 

 “Uh?” 

 “You know.... your partner....” 

 “Oh, Ian? Yeah, well, no....he’s actually here with me.” 

 “Ah....” 

 “It’s okay. I’ll figure something out.” 

 She nods, then takes off down the lane. 

I dive under, swimming hard to make up for all the time lost in the towel escapade. I’ve swum a few laps when Ian shows up. He sits on the edge of the pool. Starting to put on his fins. 

“Did you see my towel?” I point to the bright pink wet mass on the bench. 

 “No, what happened?” 

 “The stupid wind blew it off my shoulders and into the pool!” 

 “Oh, no!” He sits there for a moment and then lights up. “I have an extra towel.” 

 “You do?”

 “Yeah, but it’s in the car.”

 “Go get it, Ian!” I command.

 “But....” He points to his one foot, fin on.

“You can just run out and get it now,” I say. “Wouldn’t that be better than going after your swim when you’re all wet?” 

 He pauses for a moment, then gathers up his stuff. “You’re right. I’ll just go get it now.” 

 And off he goes, lugging his big red swim bag with him back into the locker room to get dressed again for the trek out to the car. 

 The car isn’t far. Parked just right in front of the building. I almost think he could just put his fins on and trot out there, but I don’t suggest this. Instead, I let him go, and dive back under the water, doubling my efforts to get my yards in. 

 A few laps later, he’s back. The brightly colored old beach towel from our summers at Keller in his hands. He’s grinning as he shows me the towel, placing it on top of my Bookish Cats swim bag. I watch as he picks up the sopping Pink Towel and begins to wring it out. He used to always wring all of my swim shirts and pants for me in Hawaii, too. He likes wringing, I think. Or it just gives him a sense of purpose. He likes helping me. And today is no exception. 

What would I do without him? I just so appreciate him. I mean, who else would get off the deck, get dressed again, and tromp out to the car for me? No one. He sits on the deck now, putting on his fins for a second time. “THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! Ian! You are my hero!”

 I give him a big wet hug. He grins a happy smile. We dive under the water together, kicking with our fins. I’m out in front of him now, but my heart is full. I can swim now with the knowledge that I can dry off. The pink towel gave me a scare. But Ian saved the day!

They're Closed! AGAIN????

 

“They’re closed.”

I’m sitting on the steps of the Richmond Plunge fuming as a large middle-aged white guy continues walking toward me. He’s donned a Covered California black mask and is rummaging through his swim bag. Looking for.... money? .... Vaccination Card?.... Brain?

            “They ARE CLOSED!” I holler at him again.

            This time he hears me, stops. At the requisite 6 feet social distance. I don’t have my mask on. I’m too mad to care.

            “Why?” he asks.

            “Staff illness.”

            He shakes his head, “Damn....” he sighs. “I’ve been burned at this place before.”

            “You come here regularly?”

            “I used to, but then with COVID, I got out of the habit. But now, I’m trying to get back in the swing of things.”

            “Yeah, well, no swing today,” I mutter.

            He chuckles. “Nope, guess no endorphins today.”

            I smile, “Exactly!”

            “I used to cycle, but then I had to give that up because I have....” He mutters something behind his mask that I can’t understand. I’m so sick of not understanding people cuz of the goddamn masks. Can’t they invent masks with built-in microphones so we can hear?

            “......and my doc said if I fell, I’d have to go in for a brain scan or if there’s any blood loss well then, I’d be dead within minutes.”

            Did he really say this? Is he a hemophiliac? I remember there was a hemophiliac at the Oakland Y who was always given his own lane. If anyone had kicked him or if he ran into anyone and bled, he’d be a goner. I always wondered if this were true. I mean, was he really a hemophiliac? Isn’t that pretty rare? And only for royalty?

            This guy looks healthy and sturdy. Hardly a hemophiliac type if there is a type. I imagine they would be skeletal and pale, with blue veins popping up on their arms and legs ready to burst.

            But I don’t ask this Sturdy Guy if he’s a hemophiliac; I just nod and tell him about how bikes are dangerous. My brother-in-law fell off his and broke his hip.

            “Yeah, you can’t do that in the pool,” he laughs.

            I’m still mad, though, because the pool is randomly closed even though this guy is distracting me. He doesn’t seem mad at all. Why is that? Do some people just not have the same NEED for swimming that I do? And, if so, how can I be more like them? The Plunge is so unreliable. Last week, Ian and I couldn’t even get in because it was so crowded. Fortunately, I had a premonition that this would happen and had brought my wetsuit. So, we went to the beach.

            But today? I didn’t have any premonition.

            I rise off the steps and start to walk toward my car. Sturdy Man turns to walk with me. We come upon V.  and a friend of hers, deep in Pool Closed Complaining Mode. “Hey V,” I interrupt.

            “Hi Cj, the pool is closed.”

            “Yeah, I know, it sucks.”

            “K and I have just been complaining about it for 10 minutes. I don’t understand why they couldn’t send out an email warning us of the closure. It’s like they don’t respect us lap swimmers.”

            Sturdy Man is lurking behind the group, but I can tell he’s agreeing. We all are mad. It’s such a waste of our time, money, and energy. And V is right. There seems to be a lackadaisical disregard for swimmers at the Richmond Pools.  I get it that there are staffing issues, but if they have time to put a sign on the door, don’t they have time to send out an email letting us know?

            “Yeah,” I agree with V now, “I even looked at my email this morning. Nothing.”

            “I just think they need a better system,” V continues. “They don’t respect us swimmers!” she repeats. I watch her chocolate chest heave up and down. She’s mad too. Well, at least I’m not the only one!

            Sturdy Swimmer Man takes off, waving goodbye. I stand for a moment, listening to V tell another story about how she couldn’t get in the other day even though she was on the waiting list. They just forgot her!

            “I think that was the day you went to the beach, Cj,” she said.

            “Oh, yeah, that’s right. Did you end up getting in?”

            “Yeah, but not till 12:25.”

            “So, you got in about 30 minutes? That’s better than nothing”

            She nods, “Yes, it’s better than nothing, but still I could have swum with my friend D. We know each other and feel comfortable with each other and I could have shared a lane with her but they forgot me!”

            Is she ready to cry? I don’t think so, really, but it’s horrible to be forgotten. Esp. if it’s to swim!

Weeping Woman, Rembrandt

            I give her my condolences, turning now to head back to the car. “Enjoy your day....” I say. “If it’s possible without a swim!”

            “I just think they don’t respect us. I think they could have sent out an email!” V repeats.

I nod, sighing, heading across the street, trying to rein in my anger and frustration before getting in the car and driving home.

            A truck loaded with junk almost hits me as I cross the street. I barely notice as I beep the car open and heave my unused swim bag into the back. Sitting inside the car, I stare out at the green park with dogs playing fetch and people standing around chatting. They all seem happy as can be.

            Maybe I should get a dog, I think, as I start the car and back out of my space.