Spitball Army

The pool wasn’t very crowded this afternoon – there were no more than six people – despite temperatures in the 90s and 1,000% humidity (of course, that’s impossible, but YOU try to live in it!).  One of the pool’s occupants was a young black boy, about ten years old.  I could see him jumping up and down in the four-foot free-swim zone as I was swimming my laps.  His feet would leave the pool floor, then come back down – his knees would immediately bend and he would jump back up again.  Over and over and over.  There was also a good deal of unorganized arm splashing going on.

At some point, I tagged the wall in the shallow end of the pool and, just as I was turning my head back into the water in preparation for a push off, I heard a voice say, “How come you…?”  Then I was gone.  When I returned from that lap, the boy was bobbing in the lane next to me.  I stopped to see what was going on.

“Hey, fish.”  I say that to all of the kids at the pool.  They probably think it’s stupid.  I probably should have called this boy “frog,” in tribute to his talent for jumping.

He dangled on the lane line.  “Where’d you get those glasses?” he asked, referring to my swim goggles.

“I bought them at the store.”

“Can I use them?”

“Well, I need them to swim, buddy.”

“How come you swim so fast?”  This kid was just full of questions.

“Oh, I wasn’t swimming that fast.”  I really wasn’t.

“How come that guy is swimming so fast?”  He pointed to the fellow in the adjacent lane, who was sputtering and swimming a modified dog paddle.  Then the questions started coming in an uncontrolled torrent.

“Why do use two kickboards?  How come you only breathe on that one side?  Why don’t you just use your right arm?  Did you use a guest pass to swim in here?  Why don’t you use those orange glasses?”  A pair of abandoned, and very orange, kid’s swim goggles had been hanging near the poolside water fountain for weeks.

“Why don’t you use them?” I answered.  “They probably work all right.”

“Yuck.”  He wasn’t having any of that – who knows whose face those goggles had been on.  “Wanna race?”

“Okay.  I’ll give you a head start, and I’ll use the kickboard.”  He was off and splashing before I could finish my sentence.  I let him get about halfway across the pool before I pushed off the side – me and my two kickboards.  By the time I reached him he was hanging on the lane line, watching me, and laughing his face off.  I kept going and got a few more rounds in before he showed up again in the shallow end.  I stopped to answer more questions.

“Where did you learn how to swim?  Do you teach swim lessons here?  Do you know that lifeguard?”  He pointed toward the guard stand.  “My sister doesn’t know how to swim.  I like to swim.  Can I have those glasses?  Are you finished swimming?  This water tastes salty.”

I told him I wasn’t quite done.  He asked me a few more questions.  When he paused to take a breath, I resumed my swimming.  He grabbed a noodle float and bounced back over to the free swim area.

When I finished, I glided under the lane lines into the open area.  My interrogator was doing the swimming pool pogo at the foot of the lifeguard stand, pummeling the guard with queries.  I took off my goggles and looked at them, yellowing and cloudy.  What the heck, I thought, I buy them in bulk.  I handed the boy my goggles.

He let out a banshee yell and gave me a huge grin.  Goggles on, he disappeared under the water.  He popped his head above the surface to catch a breath and splash his arms excitedly.  Then he was gone again.  I left and went upstairs to change into my street clothes.

As I was walking out of the building, I looked through the windows into the pool area.  The pool bobber was still going at it, diving, splashing, looking like an aquatic aviator, viewing the briny indoor underwater world with no more time for questions.