Reflections on the Third Week of Summer – A Bumbling Swim

Daylilies

Sweat rolling down my nose, I squinted in Monday’s sunshine to read the sign on the YMCA door.

Pool closed.

Sorry for the

inconvenience.

Did a baby spew diarrhea into the water? Maybe the chlorine pump broke again. The reason would determine how long the pool stayed closed. I opened the door and walked to the sign-in desk. Another pool closed sign and the receptionist, who hung up the phone and flashed a sunny smile, greeted me. 

“Why is the pool closed?” I set my swim bag at my feet.

Color drained from her face. She frowned. “The roof collapsed and fell into the pool. Such chaos! They hustled to get everyone out of the water.”

Glad to have missed that adventure, I closed my gaping mouth. “Do you know when it will be fixed?”

She lifted her empty hands, palms upward. “No one knows. It just happened before you arrived. Call or check Facebook before you come again. And you can use your Y-membership to swim at the MARC. They open in a hour.”

Wait an hour to swim at an unfamiliar place? Not in my comfort zone. “Thanks.” I picked up my swim bag for the half hour trek back to Wells Wood. 

Would my arthritis act up if I waited a week to swim? Sheesh, with the Independence Day holiday mid week, the repair might take longer.

So after checking Facebook Tuesday morning―pool closed until further notice―I researched Meadville Area Recreation Complex online, drew two maps, and shouldered my swim bag. Feeling as apprehensive and alone as I did the first day of kindergarten when the teacher separated me from my neighbor Mark because “Boys don’t sit with girls,” I headed for the unfamiliar pool.

In the middle of a square desk in the lobby, the receptionist rested her forehead on her arms. Her red hair cascaded over the counter.

I walked to the desk and cleared my throat.

She didn’t look up.

“Excuse me,” I said. “This is my first time at the MARC. The pool at the Y is closed. How do I sign in here?”

She lifted her face revealing acne as red as her hair and an expression of surprise at my ignorance. The teenager pointed to a scanner on an adjacent side of the desk. “Scan your Y-card there.”

Before her forehead touched her arms again, I asked a second question. “Where’s the woman’s locker room.”

Her head jerked up with the same surprised expression. “Right there.” She pointed. “Behind you.”

Feeling as dumb as she seemed to judge me, I walked to the adjacent side of the desk, scanned my card, and looked longingly at the exit. Then I walked into the locker room.

Unlike the YMCA, the lockers had their own keys and required money. I read the directions. Deposit money in the slot. Close the door. Take the key. How much money? I followed a running toddler around the bank of lockers to his mom.

She watched him run past then glanced up at me.

“Do you know how much money I need to put in the locker?”

She yanked a bathing suit up the legs of the boy’s sister. “I think it’s fifty cents.”

“Thanks.” I returned to the locker. Ask the redhead how much money for sure, or just pay the fifty cents? I unzipped my coin purse and pulled out two quarters.

The mom shouted from around the corner. “Make sure you have everything you need before you close the door. You have to pay each time you open and close the door.”

Determined not to be a wuss and ask more questions, I walked about the locker room finding the bathroom, dressing stalls, and showers before I happened on the pool entrance. Walking through it, I surveyed a huge, unfamiliar space.

The pool was the size of three or four YMCA pools and shaped like an upside down and backward L. Only a dozen people splashed in the immense space. None swam laps. I walked to the nearest life guard, another teenager, and asked where to swim laps.

He pointed to a six foot wide lane running across the far end of the pool, the top of my upside down L.

“Thanks,” I said, marched to the end of the pool, and set my swim bag on the bleachers. I inched down the ladder into water colder than in the YMCA pool―not a problem on a sweltering day.

Alone in the lane, I pulled and kicked for breast stroke. Each time my head bobbed up for air, I looked for a sign stating the length of the lane. No length. Just depth markings from four to eleven feet.

Swimming buddies at the YCMA had told me that the MARC had longer lanes, but did they mean the length of the smaller or larger rectangle section? None of them were around to ask.

I could measure my swim by time rather than lengths. At the YMCA, I swam five-sixths of a mile in fifty-five minutes. I bobbed and checked for clocks. Two large circular pace clocks sat at the end of the lane. The hands didn’t move on either clock. And I couldn’t see a standard clock.

Great Spangled Fritillary on Butterfly Bush

Switching to side stroke, I decided to swim seventy-four lengths, like I do at the YMCA, and relaxed in the soothing water. I’d calculate the distance later.

With peripheral vision, I watched more and more people join the folks in the main section of the pool. Children jumped off diving boards in deep end adjacent to the lap lane. After my fifty-sixth length, a preteen slipped into the lap lane and pulled a bathing cap onto her head.

Stopping backstroke, I stood and asked, “Where do you want to swim?”

She stuck her index finger into the water at her side. “I’ll stay here.”

I assumed she meant by the edge of the lane rather than in just that spot. “Okay, I’ll swim in the middle.”

The girl only swam six lengths then I had the lane to myself again. Why hadn’t any of the other Y-regulars come to the MARC?

After length seventy-four, I climbed out of the pool―blood tingled through my extremities and air flowed to the bottom of my lungs. A refreshing swim. But how long?

I picked up my bag and headed toward the locker room. A new teenager sat in the life guard chair. When I stopped beside her, she looked down at me with an angelic smile.

“How long is the lap lane?”

She shook her head. “Sorry. I don’t know.”

“Would it be okay if I measured it after I take my shower?”

“Sure,” she said without a twinge in her lips as if people asked her to measure the pool every day. “You can come back and measure after your shower.”

Shower.

Yikes! I hadn’t packed a towel because the YMCA provides towels for its patrons. The MARC didn’t have piles of towels stacked anywhere.

If I showered in my suit, I could dry outside in the sunshine―and get sunburned. Dry with my t-shirt? Not unless I drove home in my bra or a sopping shirt.

I showered, dripped to the bathroom, and pulled eight paper towels from the dispenser. Hiding behind the curtain of a dressing stall, I patted my body to damp―perfect for a sweltering day.

After dressing, I fished a measuring tape out of my purse. But kneeling on the wet deck in dry clothes didn’t appeal to me. I carried my gear and the measuring tape to the front desk.

The redhead had her back to me. She colored a design and chatted with the life guard I’d asked about the length of the lap lane.

The life guard stared at me.

The redhead saw the her friend stare so turned around. She walked to my side of the desk and said, “How can I help you?”

“How long is the lap lane?” I waited for her surprise at my ignorance expression. It didn’t come.

“Twenty-five yards.”

I waved the measuring tape. “Thanks. You saved me the trouble of measuring.”

She nodded and went back to her drawing.

Maybe she was just sleepy when I’d arrived around noon. The next time I swim at the MARC, I’ll ask her how much money to put in the locker.

In the car I pulled out a notepad and did the math.

75 feet X 74 lengths = 5550 feet

5550 feet / 5280 feet per mile = 1.05 miles 

My cheek muscles squeezed into a grin―not bad for bumbling my way through swimming in a strange pool.

Thursday, when I pulled a towel out of the cupboard for my trip to the MARC, the phone rang.

“Hi, this is Christine,” a youthful voice said on the other end of the line. “I’m calling to invite you to the July birthday party for seniors at the Y Thursday, July twelfth from nine-thirty to eleven. We’ll have a present for you and cupcakes.”

“Thanks for the invitation.” I stuffed the towel beside the shampoo and conditioner in my swim bag. “Do you know when the pool will open again?”

“It’s not open now.” She paused. “I’m looking at the schedule. It will open at eleven for lap swim.”

Open at eleven for lap swim? “Great!” I pulled the towel out of my bag. “I’ll jump in the car and race right up.”

She chuckled. “The pool will be open when you get here.”

The pool was open with four of my buddies swimming laps.

I hustled in and pushed off the side for breast stroke.

Fifty-five minutes later, I stopped for cool down stretches.

Eva, the swimmer who hobbles to the pool then swims like a silver streak, stopped at the end of an adjacent lane and pulled off her goggles. “Wasn’t that something about the pool closing Monday?”

Nodding, I pushed my goggles to the top of my head. “Did the roof really fall in?”

“No!” She lay on her back, reached her hands over her shoulders to grab the side of the pool, and pedaled with her feet. “A leak from a sink or a toilet up there made the tiles soggy. Three fell into the pool.” She pointed to the door where people in wheel chairs enter the YMCA. “I came around and looked through that open door. A lot of dirt and debris floated in the pool. The mess must have been up in the ceiling for ages.”

No wonder the pool opened in less than a week. “I swam at the MARC Tuesday because the Facebook page said the pool was closed. Did you?”

“Facebook was wrong.” She switched to her stomach and doggy paddled in place. “I called Tuesday morning and waited a looooooooooooong time for the receptionist to find out if the pool was open. It was. I swam here Tuesday.”

After all I went through, the YMCA pool had opened Tuesday? Sheesh!

Roman Candle