Late August, the days, start to shorten, summer heat lingering.
Standing on the board's back end, propping on my elbows against the handrails.
Exhaustion is faint, repelled by youth for the time being.
Water, still dripping from the last pass, soaks the muggy heat.
I survey the scene. High cloud cover and haze, enough to gray out the sun and hide that twenty percent chance of rain the weatherman's been talking about for a week or so. Chlorine-soaked humidity hangs in the air. One or two people are packing their pool gear, preparing to leave. Lifeguards Jason and Lauren are busy with chores: scrubbing the deck, taking final inventories, counting money, hosing down the bathrooms. They mill around the cinder-block pool building; occasionally someone darts from the office into a bathroom, or back.
Out in the parking lot, other people gather. From here it looks like the annual "Initiation" of one of the high school's two "fraternities". As far as I can tell, this ritual is the only reason for the primordial, co-ed "frats" to exist; it's certainly the most entertaining part. There's not much a frat can do when they only meet for an hour or two each week, but they get the basics right: practice Robert's, do lots of drugs and booze, cheat an extra letter grade or two, and get away with almost all of it, providing they present themselves as fine, upstanding members of the community. And, once a year, practice what passes for hazing of a crop of new recruits.
The water, still angry about the last disruption, sloshes about, a patient in an unpadded cell, with noone but four walls to talk to, and no way of escape. I know the water's story: it floats or sinks a few hundred swimmers over the course of a day, traps a few hundred junebugs each night. All of them impart information to the water. Every motion, and gesture, and the emotions they express, is conveyed to the water, which broadcasts the message as far as it can--in this case, about twenty-five yards. That's the fun part about divebombing an empty pool -- watching and feeling the perfect transcription of such a profound statement echo about, as it decends into random noise.
There's a non-random noise from the parking lot. A scream actually, then some commotion. Something about ants. Looks like someone sent one of the Pledges to go sit in the wrong spot. I can't really blame the ants. If some candy-ass sat on my house to demonstrate commitment, I'd bite her, too. I take an extra few seconds to watch the commotion, as the seniors divide up the duties of ant-cleaning and pledge-hazing.
I walk out to the end of the board, hang my toes over the edge. I take a final look at the water, which has echoed itself into a murmur. I bounce up on my toes a few times, then pace off the approach like I have every time for 5 years now. Folks used to get impatient over pacing, but it's the best way to prevent an off-balance plant and its resulting accident, with broken limbs or stitches.
Four steps, left foot leads. Fourth step becomes a hop from the right leg, converting the left leg from forward to upward. Bring both feet together at the hop's apex, and plant with both feet at the board's end. I feel the board bend under the increased weight, crouch a bit, then leap upwards with the board's recoil. With nobody in or out of the pool to splash, I figure on launching straight up and out. Things slow down as I get airborne, and I hear the board bounce up and down behind me. I throw my legs ahead as I start decent.
"Hail Mary", known in some circles as "Prayer for the Dry", "Wing and a Prayer", "Pray for Rain", or "What the Hell was That?," is named for the reentry position: reclined, feet together, knees bent, arms and hands in a prayer-like position. After entering the water butt-first, flatten out, and let the momentum carry you down through the water. It's my favorite; more directional than Cannonball, much larger yield than either Jackknife or Can Opener. The 'secret' is in the pocket of air created on entry, and timing the pocket so the water closes over its top, then collapses from all sides, creating a nice little shockwave and accompanying boom. Pocket location is key here; if it misses high, you'll end up with a nice headache.
I hit the water at the right angle, and flatten as the water passes my shoulders. For a split-second I'm lying in the bottom of a crater looking up past the water's surface, into the clouds. Then the water closes over the gap, each side racing the others to fill the void. I draw the pocket down with me as I continue downward. The loud boom and punch on my chest are signs of a successful run. I float downwards, watching the results while soaking in the coolness of the water. A mist of fine bubbles marks the point of entry. The waves are already spreading out, and the spray stops falling a few seconds later. A slight ringing in my ears and the sound of exhaling, are the only sounds left to be heard. Message: delivered.
I eventually reach the bottom, and push back up for air. The surface, once muted, is now rightfully choppy. I decide to swim to the other side, no need to take the quick way out. More noise for the pool to record. I climb out of the pool, and watch the message echoed into a million pieces while I dry off. After goodbyes to Jason and Lauren, I manage to walk through the hosed-off bathroom without slipping, and go unlock my bike.
The bridge crossing the main drainage ditch provides an ample view of the parking lot festivities. A mass of Pledges, unrecognizable under mats of condiments, sits in the paved ditch that separates the parking lot proper from the pool building. Overflow from the pond up the hill flows over their feet and under their seats. The seniors circle around the whole affair, some spraying ketchup or whipped cream, a few picking lucky winners to do monkey tricks, and a few more yelling at the assembled body of degradation in general. The 'chaperones', most of them having been on both sides of this ritual several times through their schooling years, keep the peace and clean up after the whole affair.
They should be glad I'm not in charge of the operation; their candy asses would be planted firmly in the wet sand of the drainage ditch right now. Now that would be entertainment. The snakes wouldn't bother, as long as nobody stepped or sat on one. Forget this walking in circles; I want ten pledges to run the quarter-mile down to the road and back, in the ditch, and whoever makes it back is in. Just remember: if you hit quicksand, float on your back and we'll fetch you after the proceedings are complete. And they'd do it, too, as long as they thought they would be accepted afterwards. This is why you wait until the end of the ritual to draw lots for that year's crop.
These ideas are almost as entertaining as watching the fools jump through hoops. But in either case, I'm already late for dinner, and my legs are starting to stiffen. Time to get moving. I remount the bike, coast across the bridge with a few pedals. The bridge empties out into the park on the other side of the ditch, a quiet tree-filled park with benches, playground equipment, a few tennis courts, and a jogging trail that conveniently dumps out in my neighborhood a mile away. I ride down the trail, leaving the sounds of the parking lot behind.