The Old Man at the Pool

I remember the first time I saw the old man at the pool. People on the deck were generally of 3 forms, children in bathing suits, parents carrying pool bags and towels or young, sun bleached swim instructors wearing red bathing suits, visors and whistles. There was an occasional grandparent coming to watch their sweetie pie jump off the diving board, but they always came fully clothed.

This old man came wearing only a standard navy speedo and prescription transitional glasses. The kind that are never dark and never quite clear. On his feet were speedo slide sandals. Under one arm he carried a couple cases of soda pop and on the other arm draped his towel, cap and Swedish goggles. All the hair on his head, face and body was white with age. His hair was kept neat, but longer than most men his age. He had a well groomed white beard a couple inches long. The top of his head was bald. His skin had a sun kissed glow and was nicely wrinkled atop his still rather lean body. I am sure that at one point his shoulders were a little more square and his abs more defined, but for a man of his age, he had weathered well. I would estimate from his uneven step, wrinkles and hair color he was in his 70s. He was hard to miss on a pool deck full of yelling kids and teenagers.

Part of our instructor training included "surveying the scene." It was drilled pretty hard that we should be constantly scanning for potential problems, tired swimmers, running children, puddles of water, etc. This man didn't fit any of the emergencies we had been trained to spot, but I had to wonder why he was there.

It was my first year teaching swim lessons so I always watched what the other instructors did and I tried to follow suit. (terrible pun) Some nodded at him, some saw him and went on with their class. He headed to our tent to see the pool manager, so I moved on and kept teaching.

After my class I learned that the soda pop under his arm (usually pepsi and root beer) was for all of us staff. And it was ice cold. This was fantastic because our only relief from the sun and heat was a rudimentary tent made from a couple green tarps, bungee cords and metal poles cemented into tires. We had no electricity, let alone a fridge. Anything cold was a delight. (Sidenote, many Mondays we would arrive at the pool to find those cemented tire poles in the deep end. Hoodlums would jump the fence and roll them into the pool just to watch them sink. We became very good at deep sea diving, rolling them back the the shallow end and then levering them out of the pool. My lungs and arms hurt thinking about it.)

The old man brought the soda as a thank you for letting him swim laps during lessons. He didn't bring it every time, but often enough that we were happy to let him swim whenever he wanted. My internal moral compass made me wonder if this trade arrangement was legit or honest. He had no signed liability release form on file and the city never got one sip of the soda. What if he had a heart attack or something? But I drank my soda and figured that was on the pool manager. (Later when I became pool manager the practice continued. By then I knew he was NOT going to have a heart attack. We were all a greater liability than he was. And that pool was as much his as it was anyones.)

I worked at the pool every summer for 6 years through high school and college until I got married. You could say in a sense I grew up at that pool. I learned a whole heap about people, service, teaching, learning, humor, endurance, friendship, hygiene, safety, survival . . . all things that help make up who I am today. Still the memory of the old man is a treasure I won't forget.

Each time he came to swim he wore his tried and true swim uniform. He sauntered onto the deck with complete confidence. Not an arrogant confidence you see in some young male swim instructors, but the confidence that come with wisdom, time and routine. He spoke very little to us. I would say he was a little aloof, but it was more he was passing through a time he had already lived. He would just smile and maybe wave if we thanked him for the soda or said hi. I never knew his name, I don't think anyone did. He wasn't there to distract us. He came to swim.

He came to the pool like people come to church. But instead of spiritual healing or comfort, he came for renewal. You could see it in his countenance and step as he left each time. He was satisfied and alive again.

He usually swam for about an hour. He wasn't super fast, but his pace was consistent and never slowed. He knew all the strokes and swam them all; even the weird ones like inverted breaststroke and side stroke. Sometimes he would grab a kick board or pull buoy, but mostly he just put his head down and cut through the water. His best stroke was butterfly. I imagine at one time he must have been very fast and powerful, but now he swam fly the way some people do tai chi or yoga. In the Olympics, swimmers machine themselves through the water with force and speed, but he swam butterfly the way people dance. It was a graceful, rhythmic dance. Me? I can do fly for about 50 yards and then I have nothing left. He would do 100 yds fly, catch his breath and go again and again.

He never used the ladder to get out or in the pool like most old feeble people do. He hoisted himself in and out the same way we all did, with his arms, swinging his hips up onto the deck. When he was done, he sat at the edge of the pool with his feet dangling in the water for a few minutes. As he rested and caught his breath he watched the wild scene of kids splashing, crying, yelling, jumping, kicking; and all the staff doing our best to coach and help them. He had a content smile on his face as though all was as it should be. Then he would rub his face and head, stretch his shoulders, gather his things and saunter off the deck to the parking lot.

I know so little about the old man at the pool, yet he still inspires me today. He kept his talent and discipline. He kept his health and his form. And I don't know for sure, but it sure seemed to me that the simple routine of swimming brought him a whole lot of joy and satisfaction.

Several decades have passed since I watched him swim. I never was nor ever will be the swimmer he was. (Ask anyone on staff, I was much more a teacher than a swimmer.) But I can keep swimming. I can keep what I have. I can know that same joy and satisfaction.