Dear

        “Hello Dear. How was the swimming today?” Middle-aged salt and peppered pony-tailed man is getting into the car next to me. Do I know him? He called me ‘dear’ like I was someone he knew. But then, he probably calls all women dear. I should be offended by this, but I’m not.

        He’s got a presence of authority and weight. I wouldn’t dream of ignoring him. But do wonder if I know him or have chatted with him before.

            “It was great!” I exclaim. Because it had been.

When I’d arrived, checking in at the front window of Kennedy High Pool, I noted how the lifeguard lane chart displayed prominently on the counter in front of me was nearly empty. No red XX’s in any of the lanes except for one. Could that be true? Only one other swimmer was there today? “Looks like there’s lots of room,” I’d grinned behind my mask. Toto, one of the senior lifeguards, almost smiled, “It’s your own private pool.”

            I’d laughed. “I like that!” His smile broadened.

            And, when I’d walked out on deck, only Dori, the beauteous Cello Player, was swimming her languid flippered laps.

            It was a beautiful dream.

            So, now when Pony Tail man asks me about my swim, I can’t help but spread my delight. It was such a rare treat to have my own private pool!

            “What’s your stroke?” he asks me now.

            “Oh, lately I like backstroke, but honestly, I’m a freestyler. How about you?”

            “Freestyle.” He nods, opening the car door to his massive SUV. He leans on the open door, settling in for a chat. “I like a little breaststroke. I tried to master the butterfly…” He chuckles.

            “Yeah, me too,” I agree. “But I could only move forward with my flippers.”

            He nods, “And then I did some springboard. Some platform. My brother, he was a platform diver. On teams. Won some awards.”

            “Wow! That’s impressive,” I say. “I tried to do a little diving myself in high school, but too scary for me. I stuck to swimming.”

            “I understand,” he nods, pausing for a moment, gazing out at the street that runs by the pool. Two Canada geese honk overhead.

            “I played myself a little ice hockey, too.”

            “You were a real athlete!” I marvel.

            He nods, “Back in the day, maybe. Now, though, it’s good for my job.” He nods over at the high school but doesn’t elaborate on what his job is. I wonder if he’s the principal. He seems like a principal to me because of his weight, authority, and friendliness. But it would make sense that he's a coach, right? All that sport experience and knowledge of swimming.

            He heaves himself into the car, “You have a nice rest of your day, Dear.”

            “Yes, thanks, you too.” I open my car door and climb into the warmth of the front seat.

            He starts his engine and backs out quickly, speeding off to who knows where. Lunch? A tryst with his lover? Home to his wife? A drive down to the marina?

            As I start my engine, I wonder why he talked to me. Guess it was that swimmer common ground situation. And proximity. And I just invite conversation?

            I turn on Beethoven. Back out of the parking space and head out of the lot. More Canada geese fly overhead as Alfred Brendel’s hands dance over the keyboard. I turn up the radio. And grin and grin and grin!

Alfred Brendel plays Beethoven's Sonata no 1

Martin Luther King Day

“Do you have tomorrow off, Carol?” Tomorrow is Martin Luther King Day---a holiday we should all celebrate. Or at least think about!

We’re in the showers, post chaotic swim at Kennedy High pool. I always think it’s strange to have conversations in the showers, but when else do we have time to chat? Certainly not in the pool.

            “Well…kinda,” I respond, before dunking my soapy head back under the water.

            “What do you mean?” Susan asks as she vigorously scrubs her torso.

            “I have tomorrow off from teaching live on Zoom, but not from teaching online.”

            “What level do you teach?”

            “College.”

            “Oh, wow!”

            “Yes, well, it sounds more impressive than it is.”
            “At least you’re Gainfully Employed!” Alice calls out from the shower opposite us, her eyes closed with big bubbles of shampoo spilling over her face.

            “Ha!” I laugh. “Barely!”

            “Maybe lowercase?” she jokes.

            “Yes!” I chuckle. “gainfully employed…. or no case…. ainfully or aimlessly or….”

            We all laugh; Alice’s cackle is particularly appreciative.  And, yet, I think, it’s no laughing matter. To have worked at a profession in higher ed for over 30 years with a Master’s degree and too much experience and still barely be able to pay my bills let alone retire is beyond the scope of shower humor.

Chatting with my Spanish tutor from Costa Rica the other night, she’d asked me how old I was in order to practice saying numbers. When I told her I’d be 65 next month, she asked if I was going to retire. I told her, “No; that I’d never have enough money to retire. She expressed disbelief. “In Costa Rica, they force you to retire at 65.”

            “Yes, well, not here in the US. There is no way I can live off the government’s social security that I’ve been contributing to for over 40 years. Maybe I should come live in Costa Rica!” I joke. “It’s cheaper there.”

            “Si,” she agrees. “There are many expatriados who live here in Costa Rica.”

            I think this isn’t such a bad idea. I’m tired of working and not being ‘Gainfully’ employed. I want to celebrate holidays like Martin Luther King Day with a mindful walk in nature up at Wildcat Canyon, contemplating Dr. King’s life and legacy and how much of what he envisioned for People of Color in his future still hasn’t happened. Racism is still rampant in the United States of America.  And, it often seems to only be getting worse.

            What’s the solution? It’s too big for me. And, who am I to say? As a white woman with so much privilege, I can only know what racism is like through the stories my students write down. I am always saddened and appalled by their stories. We need leaders like Dr. King with the vision and charisma to forge a way out from this oppression that People of Color live with every day. I am hopeful that new leaders will rise up and show us the way out of the racism that permeates the systems in this country: education, housing, government.

            Today, as I’m working, I will at least take a moment to think about Dr. King and his message against oppression. Maybe if all of us take a moment to reflect this would be a start.

            Maybe being aimlessly employed will lend itself to such reflection?

            The women are quiet now after the showers. It’s late and everyone is trying to get out of the locker room before the lifeguards start yelling at us to get out, letting us know that our 15 minutes shower and dressing time is over.  Alice and I are the last ones out. As we stumble into the parking lot, a brisk wind whipping our wet hair, she tells me how she’s going to Marin because a friend of hers just died of cancer. I express my sympathy. She says she’s just part of the demographic.

            I watch her lumber towards her black sports car, an aging 280Z, before I hurry over to Mr. Ian, who’s patiently waiting for me, car heater on and Lara bars for snacks.

            “How was your swim?” I ask him, tumbling into the car.

            “It was okay,” he says, starting the engine. “I had to swim next to the wall with the splashy woman.”

            I sigh and smile and bite into the Lara bar as he pulls out of the parking lot and we head out to Safeway, Scott Joplin on the radio in honor of Dr. King.

Chrysanthemum Rag, Joplin, Lara Downs

The 3 Carols

“…r…t…a…” Patiently, the woman in the huge red swim parka spells out her name. Ramona, the woman behind the glass today at Kennedy High Pool, turns to the computer and starts to type in the letters.

            I stand behind Spell-Out Woman, flicking my cardboard ticket back and forth loudly between my fingers in annoyance. There is always some issue with swimmers checking in. I’m not sure what it is. An archaic computer system? Flustered staff that can’t process requests? Mercury is perpetually in retrograde at Kennedy High Pool?

            Spell Out Woman turns to glance at me. Well, I am being obnoxious flicking my ticket back and forth. I stop.

            “Can’t they find you in the system?” I ask.

            “You’d think they’d know my name,” she answers, miffed in a low-key way. “I’ve been coming here for 40 years.”

            I nod. Did she really say 40 years? Has this building and pool even been here that long?

            Finally, Ramona finds her in the computer and checks her in. Spell out woman pushes a 5$ dollar bill across the counter, and then heads into the locker room.  Hell, she wasn’t even buying a ticket book?

            “Hi, Ramona,” I greet, shoving my ticket across the counter at her and glancing at the plastic sheet showing the lane assignments. Only a few lanes were filled in. “Looks like it’s not too crowded today,” I observe.

            “Yes….” She punches my ticket. “I throw away for you, okay?”

            “Oh, yeah, thanks. Finished, huh?” Damn, now I have to be found in the system. Well, I’ll do it next time. Now I have to get into the pool before it gets too crowded. The unexpected lack of a crowd is almost exhilarating considering how full the pool has been since the 4 person per lane has been instituted. Not that I’ve had to swim with 3 other people. This would be a nightmare. But there was a moment last Sunday where I thought I was going to have to circle swim with 2 other swimmers.

            That’s a whole other story though.

            Today, I take lane 2, which according to Ramona at this moment was empty, and head into the locker room.

            Spell Out Woman had shed her parka and was hanging up her clothes in the green pool bag.

            “Did you say you’d been coming here for 40 years?” I ask, thinking how I must have misheard her.

            “Yes.  I went to the Plunge and then when they opened the pool here, I started coming here. And they still don’t know my name!” she exclaimed.

            I smile behind my mask. “What is your name?”

            “Carol.”

            “Carol? Really, me too!”

            “Me too!”  Another woman, who’d been quietly getting dressed, chimed in.

            “Are you kidding?” I say. “We’re all named Carol?”

            The women laugh and nod.

            “3 Carols in one locker room? Wow! We should start singing!” I suggest. “Deck the halls with boughs of holly fa la la la laaa….”

            They both smile, but don’t join in. I guess the joke about Christmas maybe didn’t translate so early in the day.

            Carol #3 asks me, “Were you born in the 1940s?”

            Oh shit, I think. I know I didn’t get any sleep last night what with EBMUD digging up my street at 7 am., but do I really look like I’m in my 70s?

            “Uh, no,” I say, “late 1950s. I guess Carol was a popular name back then.”

            “Yes,” Carol #3 says. “You’re probably the last of the Carols.”

            I laugh. “Yes, probably.” And I think about telling the story of my name and how my mom was pregnant at Christmas with me and so Carols were in the air. Hence the name Carol. But we all just want to get in the pool or get out of the locker room. 

             Carol #2 is on her way out of the locker room and into the pool. “Have a good swim, Carol!” I wave to her.

            “Thanks, you too, Carol,” she quips.

            Carol # 3 toddles over to the mirror and starts to yank a comb through her wet hair.

            “It’s good to put a name to the bag,” she says, pointing to my Cat and Books swim bag. All the illustrations are of classic books with cat puns. 

            “Oh, yeah,” I say, holding the bag up to admire Anna Purrinina and F. Scott Catsgerald.

“Nothing better than cats and books!” I proclaim.

            “Indeed!” she agrees, tugging a final snarl out of her scraggly locks.

            I head out to the pool, humming Deck the Halls, the late morning light creating a shimmering aqua water square on lane 8, and thinking to myself, what are the odds that 3 Carols would be in the locker room at Kennedy High Pool?

            A million to 1? A gazillion to 1? Infinity to 1? 

            I grin, grabbing a kickboard and pull bouy from the trash can filled with them, and stride out onto the deck. The aqua light waves to me, small ripples bounce lightly on the surface of the water. I nod to the lifeguard who gives me a hearty, "How ya doin' today." 

    I sit on the edge of the deck. Take a deep breath. Dive in. Begin to stroke down the lane. Fa la la la laaa la la la laaaa!

                                                              

    

           

            

The Crash

 I hear the shrill whistle echoing through the natatorium. Immediately I think, “What now? Do we all have to get out of the pool for some stupid reason?” But just as I finish this thought, the big barrel of a man who is sharing the lane with me crashes into me. What the hell?

            We both stop. I understand, now, that the whistle was for us. But why did he crash into me? I was on my side of the lane, swimming backstroke so I never saw him coming. He’d been swimming a fast, splashy freestyle just fine on his side. I hadn’t been happy about his entry into “MY” lane; he was large and lumberjack-like. I knew he was going to be a challenge to swim with, generating waves, taking up a lot of space. Little did I know he’d crash into me!

            “Oh… oh, so sorry!” he says now as we both float mid-lane. “I thought you were other woman….”
            Ah, okay, I get it now. Sue, whom I’d been talking to earlier (a fellow displaced swimmer from the Y—she was trouble there too—but that’s another blog), had gotten out at the ladder a few moments before. And Crash Man had thought that she was me. One old white lady looks just like another, right?

            An honest mistake. However, he should have made sure that she was me before he took over the lane!

            I let him apologize briefly; told him I’m okay. The lifeguard doesn’t come over to check on me. It’s the Big Unfriendly Supervisor Guy. I guess since he stopped us with his whistle; he’d done his job.

So, now Crash Man and I both turn around and swim on.

            Yet, I’m shaken up. Discombobulated. He moves into the lane next to me soon after. Knows he’s not welcome? Or just sheepish?

            I continue to swim, happy he’s moved, when another Barrel Man stands on deck, motioning to get into my lane.

            Shit. No way am I going to let a crash happen again. Not that this man would crash into me. Crashes are rare. But still, I’m shaken.

            I ask the Lifeguard if I can move over to the walking lane with Alice. He nods, ‘yes’. Still, he hasn’t checked on me.

            My thumb hurts from the crash. I hope I can still play the piano!

            “Oh, Carol, you’re fine”, I tell myself as I move over to share the lane with Alice. She welcomes me with her usual cheery grin, her blue turban bobbing up and down in the square of sunlight from the open roof as she water jogs.

            I finish my swim with her. But I still feel discombobulated. Later, I talk with Super Swimmer Woman outside the Natatorium.

            “You heard the whistle?”

            “Oh, yes!” she exclaims softly.

            “That was me. Some Big Guy crashed into me!”

            “Oh, no! That’s terrible.” She oozes sympathy. I’m encouraged to continue my vent.

            “Yeah, I was on my side of the lane, swimming backstroke and bam! He just crashed into me.”
            “That is just awful!”

            “Yeah, evidently, he thought I was another swimmer that had gotten out, so he started swimming in the entire lane. But he should have checked first. I’m small! He was probably twice my size. I don’t take up a lot of space and still he crashed into me!”

            “We are entitled to Our Space!” she proclaims, small herself. “Especially, when it’s crowded like this.”

            “Exactly!”

            She nods. I see the sympathy flood from her soft brown eyes that peer over her mask.

            “Keep drinking your water!” she advises, nodding toward my water bottle I’m clutching.

            “Oh, yes,” I say, wondering why this would help with anything.

            I thank her for chatting with me. Wish her a good day. Take myself, my water bottle, and my tender thumb over to one of the outside tables to eat my granola bar and rest a moment.

            Getting crashed into takes a lot out of a person! Thank goodness for water and for sympathetic fellow swimmers to take the edge off the discombobulation!

          

The Chore Gauntlet

 

“Time for the Chore Gauntlet!” Bald Headed Woman announces to the locker room at The Plunge, maybe to someone in particular, maybe not. One woman does respond, “Oh, yeah, I know what you mean.”

      They both laugh. Camaraderie in Chores. I’m not sure what she means. Does she mean that she has a list of chores and she has to run around them? Does that mean, then, that she is avoiding doing chores?

Let’s see, I have to go to the store, do the wash, clean the bathroom, change the sheets, clean up the ants. It is quite a gauntlet! Maybe I run from one to the other? First, I head to the store, which is a gauntlet in and of itself. Weaving around all of the unmasked people who are clueless about spreading their germs is enough to send me over the gauntlet edge! And for the wash, you’d think this would be easy since I do have a washer and dryer in my house, but for whatever reason, I often just forget to do this chore. The bathroom. That is a gauntlet that I avoid though I don’t know why. It only takes 5 minutes. I don’t do a very good job! Changing the sheets? This is hard! The comforter is heavy.  The sheets don’t cooperate. I can never tell which corner of the bed the folded ones goes over! And then the ants! I am going to have a nervous breakdown over them!

            That’s a gauntlet I want to avoid!

            Yet, Bald Headed Woman seems cheerful about it. And I wonder, since she’s bald, I assume (and I could be wrong) that she is in some kind of cancer treatment. Maybe being able to even do the chores is a joy for her? I can’t imagine going through cancer treatment. I only have soap operas to gauge its horrors. And of course, they’re not real.

            Or are they?

            When Sharon had breast cancer, she underwent chemo and she was nauseous and tired and very emotional, crying at odd times and then laughing at herself. But Sharon is a brave woman. We know that from all of her marriages. After all, being married to Victor Newman for 10 minutes would be a gauntlet in and of itself!

      

      I decide to participate in the locker room dialogue today. Cuz, I like the idea of a Chore Gauntlet. “You’ve got a swim in,” I offer, “so now you’re ready for your day of chores!”

            She nods, chuckles. “You got that right.”

            “Swimming is the most important thing!” I proclaim.

            “That and breathing!” she jokes. Or is it a joke? Maybe as a cancer patient, breathing is something that is not to be taken for granted!

            “Swimming and breathing!” I laugh. “They’re both equally important! In fact, I put them at the top of my to do list!”

            We all laugh. Bald Headed Woman is finished packing up her suitcase on wheels and is heading for the door.

            “Have a good day,” she calls out.

            “I will!” I say, “after I get my swim in!”

And I’m out of there, out to the pool, ready to breathe and swim and breathe and swim and breathe and swim! The Chore Gauntlet looms, but at least for an hour, I can avoid its nagging presence. 

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.