Let's Go Swimming

Summer is here and the time has come to go swimming again.

When I was a kid I used to go to the pool all the time. I say all the time, but it was only about 49 times a week. I knew I had gotten back into the swing of things when I started turning as brown as a pine cone. We had fun back then playing cute little games like: Marco Polo, cannonball, splash fights, and let's see who can drown Troy. The stinging sensation of chlorinated eyeballs, the sunburn, the scent of sun screen, and the occasional Life-Guard whistle that sounded like an air-raid siren, all blended together into the joyous experience of "going swimming". Not to mention the sno-cone after we were done. Grape? Coconut? Watermelon? All the above… mixed. Mmmm. 

We had a community pool (which also served as a community port-o-potty for the elementary crowd). It had a diving board, which was fun. We went of the board with all the grace and style of electrocuted racoons. And we loved the splash contests.

There were several lifeguards who were basically bored high school kids who got paid to harass children in and around the pool. They seemed to really be passionate about not letting us run next to the pool. I heard there used to be hundreds of thousands of children killed or maimed every year by jogging next to a public pool, until lifeguards put an end to the carnage.

Many years later, when my son got old enough, he, of course, wanted to go swimming. This was well before he decided that staring into a phone screen 23.5 hours a day was preferrable to any other activity. So it fell to me to take him. No problem I thought. I used to swim all the time, I thought.

For those of you with sons you know you have to impress them. Unfortunately there is a razor thin line between impressing, and embarrassing them. So I had to go off the diving board. Not only go off, but execute a flawless flip. Which, in a classic dad move, I did.

I ran up, bounced, and did a peerless heels over head flip. He was suitably impressed. So much so that he hid in the locker rooms with a towel over his head until I put my shirt back on. 

To date, he has failed to do a flip off the board. But he's done nearly everything else. I can't keep doing flips forever, you know. When is the last time you saw a 54 year old man do a forward flip off a public diving board. Ha! maybe it was me.

When you’re 53 and your 9-year-old son says, “Come swimming with me, Dad!” there are two possible reactions:

1. A warm, fatherly glow of pride and connection.

2. Immediate concern for whether your swimsuit from 2009 still fits and if your hip will make that clicking noise again.

In my case, it was both.

We arrived at the community pool, where my son leapt into the water like a joyful sea otter. I followed with the caution of a man who has pulled a hamstring sneezing. The water hit me like an icy slap from Poseidon himself, and I made the noise every middle-aged man makes when submerged below the chest in icy water: a sound that’s part gasp, part grunt, and part existential crisis.

“Race you to the other side!” my son shouted, already halfway there.

I began paddling with the determined grace of a soggy walrus, my limbs arguing with one another over what stroke I was attempting. As I mentioned, back in my day (which was during the Carter administration), I was a decent swimmer. But here’s something they don’t tell you: at 53, your brain might pretend you’re an Olympic hopeful, but your body isn't fooled at all, and just wants an inner-tube and a nap.

After 20 minutes of splashing, racing, and being used as a human diving board, I was wheezing like a broken accordion. Meanwhile, my son was doing cannonballs off the deep end, powered by solar energy and gummy bears.

But here’s the thing—they don’t tell you how good it feels, even when you’re exhausted and vaguely concerned your left shoulder has detached. Laughing in the water, being present, feeling like you still got it (even if “it” is now more of a “dad bod” than a “swimmer's bod”)—that matters.

So yes, I’ll be sore for two days. And yes, my swimsuit did betray me in certain regions. But none of that compares to the joy on my kid’s face when we high-fived mid-splash, like two champions of different centuries.

Tomorrow, he wants to go again.

So I’m buying a bigger swimsuit. Sunscreen. And Advil. Lots of Advil.