Drinks With Doug

Jump Right On In

Tuesday’s weather: sun up cold, bright sky, sunny afternoon and dry air.

Tuesday’s drink: classic Gimlet.

I always think I’ve told everyone this story. But then when I tell it, I’m reminded I haven’t. That, or my Alzheimer’s is more pronounced than ever. Either way, as I stare down into this empty hole that will be Drinks With Doug (DWD), I can only think about this one story. So here goes.

I’m in tenth grade. I’ve just moved down from Traverse City and am starting school mid-way through the year. Meaning I don’t know anyone and no-one is all that interested in knowing me.
Among the requirements at Adams: swim class. This is bad, because I don’t swim.

Oh sure, I splash in the water, perhaps like a fish on the line splashes about. Otherwise I am terrified of the water. Apparently I always was. One of my first memories – and there are precious few of those, much more on that in the coming months – was going to swim camp at the Y in Royal Oak. I hated it. Hated, with the screaming, pouting, wimpering hate that only a 4 year old can conjure. My antics paid off and my parents pulled me from the YSWIM ordeal. But of course, I also didn’t learn how to swim.

So here I am, an overweight, red-headed newbie dweeb in swim class once more. No antics will get me out of the pool this time. I manage to generally hide my yawning terror as we do the ‘Dead Man’s Float’ – who the heck came up with this name, btw? Cardinal Richelou? – and discover that I even kind of like the back stroke. Blind elderly ladies with arthritis swam better than me, but I survived.

Then came diving. Into the deep end. I, no surprise, was the last to go. My instructor, a woman whose name I can’t recall though I wish I could, was very cool about the whole thing. No doubt sensing my throbbing terror she walked me all around the edge of the deep watery pit, pausing periodically to look down into the chlorine blue. She showed me the pole she can thrust in the water in a moment to yank a troubled diver to the surface. She even walked the board, did a quick hop, disappeared into the water and sprang to the sides, all in probably less than 10 seconds. Now, it was my turn.

She didn’t yell, or make a fuss. She didn’t march me to the edge of the board and scream, or worse, push me in. She really didn’t do anything…other than make very clear that I was not leaving until I dove in the deep end. Clearly, she meant it.

I stood at the tiled edge for a bit. The water warm on my toes as I dipped them in. That chlorine and teen-age boy smell. Big buzzy industrial lights and the sound of little tiny wavelets. I walk to the board. Pause. I step up. Pause. I start walking to the end. Long pause. She’s not even moving.

And then I do it. Brisk walk to the end, bounce once, twice, in I go, feet first straight down, like spaghetti into a pot. I remember a cloud of bubbles – who knew bubbles make noise down there? – and almost effortlessly I rose to the surface and swam to the side. Up out of the pool, dripping wet and still fat and dweeby, I felt like Edmund Hillary.

I don’t know what I said, but I do remember laughing a lot. Teacher was happy. Still cool, but very happy. “I want to do it again!” I said, and she smiled and nodded to the board where I scampered up and bounce bounce in we go blubblesbubblesbubbles and up to smell the chlorine again and out.

I’m always re-learning that this is how I do things in life. I’m not a jump-right-in-er like some of my former boyfriends are (J coming immediately to mind.) I don’t like being pushed into anything, and will probably fight whoever’s doing the pushing even if I want to do it. I walk around a thing, look at it, dip a toe in, look again, pause, and then run in.

So begins Drinks With Doug. A deep empty pool I have no idea how I’ll navigate, I’ve walked around and around the edge, paused and thought, and now have jumped in. No turning back now.

(bubblesbubblesbubblesbubbles)