The Pool - Present and Past

The first visit to the pool this summer with my 10-year-old stepdaughter, Ren, was quite the splash.  From all the zeppelin-like creatures floating (or sinking) around us, that is.  This indoor pool that we frequent is not fancy but very popular among families because of the Olympic-size kiddie pool.  And a fat-laden food stand.  Kind of fits the clientele.  I'll try not to be so cruel, but what the hell are these kids eating?  This one kid (I presumed he was still a kid, he had a goatee, so maybe he was just a young-looking teen fatty)  tended to cry every time someone splashed him in the face.  Like Ren repeatedly did because he refused to move out of the way, thereby, blocking her from recovering a pool thingy-shaped-like-a-rocket ship-that-sinks-to-the-bottom-so-you-can-dive-to-retrieve-it toy.  As he was rubbing his eyes, blinking, crying and more rubbing, Ren, who stands just over four-foot even with Fee Waybill's platforms on, is hidden from view, literally, because of his sack of potatoes for a belly.  Kind of makes you look at yourself and say, wow, I feel like Pee-Wee Herman on a hunger strike.    NOTE: the reference is a little creepy, but hey, that was the first thing that popped into my head.  Please, no adult pun intended.  Remember, I am Polyanna.   Finally, this big lug gets moved by the sheer willpower of Ren.  And a group of four others.  She finally gets the toy and flings it at me.  This lime-green rocket is screaming at me (what an arm on that kid) as I sat on the side of the pool.  My first reaction, duck.  I then hear a sploorf, or some such wet, squishy sound.  I glanced over my shoulder.  Sitting directly behind me, asleep in a pool chair, was a large (come on, hasn't anybody heard of Jenny Craig or lipo or eating less than a car's weight in calories every day?) woman.  Is that a goatee?  With the missile lodged or impaled or sequestered or just plain embedded into her belly.  She didn't wake nor budge.  We then left, sans rocket ship.  We didn't run, though.  Never run around a pool.

That lesson was ingrained into my cerebellum back in high school.  Mr. A. was the school's swimming coach and also the swim class teacher.  Disciplinarian.  Flat-top haircut.  Sargent-like.  A small guy with a booming voice (at least it echoed quite well) and the most piercing whistle (I blame him for my hearing loss) hanging around his neck.  His big deal was: the wooden paddle.  He would lay down the law the first day of the swim year.  Mr. A. had us all lined up at the edge of the pool, facing it.  He walks along behind us explaining his rules of the pool.  Did I mention that one of the school policies was to swim nude?  Just a little tidbit to envision.  The Great White North swim class looking like pasty full moons.  A little disturbing?  A little creepy?  We knew no better and that was probably a good thing.  His method of discipline was simple: If you roughhouse, push, run, swear,etc., you will be punished.  By his two-foot long wooden paddle.  With small holes drilled into it.  He made sure every one of us got to see this beauty of shellacked oak (?) and contoured handle   I think he even a had a name burned into it.  Was it Butty?  He was oh so proud of this baby.  Here was the deal.  If you were out of line, you got a whack on the butt.  Did I mention we were n-e-k-e-d?  He would then put a mark by your name.  If you screwed up again, the whack would be harder.  And so on.  Those holes?  They are there to suck your tender flesh out and make a welt.  Of course, he had to dip it into the pool for some added effect.  So, here we are, all lined up, with this scary, little man with a Napoleon-complex walking behind us with a piece of wood telling us what might happen.  To give us a preview, everybody will be whacked to know what it feels like.  How quaint, don't you think?  Now, in alphabetical order, Altobelli, first.  I felt like diving into the pool but realized that  a) I wasn't a very good swimmer and  b) he was the damn swim coach so he could easily catch me and paddle me into mush. 

Ah, the good old days.  What would happen today if a paddle was around?  Maybe more respect?  What about swimming nude?  More respect for anatomy?  I have to slip this into conversations every now and again with my stepson, Forrest.  Just to see the look on his face.  He was appalled.  Was it coed?, he asked.  No.  You mean, with you're winky hanging?  Yes, but when the paddle came around that first time, I turtled up.  I don't know if he believes me or not.  I kinda look back, oh, the horror, and think, if I had eaten more, that whack on my bony butt wouldn't have stung so bad.