the lifeguard paradox
instead of letting me watch re-runs of “i love lucy” i had to sit through a season of “the twilight zone.”
instead of bathing in entertainment i found myself drowning in fear.
that’s not how my parents viewed the situation, of course, but that’s how i saw it.
during my elementary school years my parents made sure i stayed busy during summer vacations. in the early 1960s “summer” was the time between school years, june to august. while other kids got to sleep in, goof off and play to their heart’s content, i had to attend a class, an activity or have lessons of some kind.
it was a parental mandate, not an option.
one summer they signed me up for swimming lessons at the ymca in downtown st. louis. south grand and arsenal street to be exact. i don’t know why they decided on that activity and location, but it was apparently for “my own good.”
that’s what they said at the time. i had my doubts, but as it turns out they knew best.
back then that part of town was a dangerous place to a suburban-raised kid like. the 45-minute one-way drive from home was terrifying. it was like looking through a view-master that began with scenes of the glories of heaven, but gradually descended into the depths of hell.
suburbs = “heaven.” city = “hell.”
our daily destination was not anything like home: trees, kitty cats, puppies, big backyards and lots of playgrounds. all i saw that summer were dirty concrete streets and even dirtier brick buildings.
the latter were especially offensive to my senses: much too close to one another and long past their prime. all of them. i couldn’t understand how anyone in their right mind would choose to live in such squalor.
even more puzzling and unnerving was the absence of anyone playing street hockey, riding bikes or flying kites. instead of having fun, the people there always looked grim and in a hurry. the only exceptions were those who liked to sleep during the day on park benches and in alleys.
to my naïve little boy eyes, the city was a harsh place, something only rod serling could dream up. i had seen glimpses of places like this on television, but it was much scarier in person.
leaving the safety of the yellow, suburban-savvy school bus was bad enough, but going inside the ymca was much worse. if this was where christians hang out, i wanted no part of it.
i remember the smells to this day. after entering the building, we were welcomed with a bouquet of bo, compliments of all those already inside. but the best aroma was yet to come: city farts of all shapes and sizes. if i had actually heard one emerge from an exerciser’s bowels i might have smiled, perhaps even giggled. but since i did not, it only soiled the inner workings of my nose and made me want to barf.
i became convinced then, and still am, that there is nothing worse than the taste of city farts and bo playing off one another. after the first day, i began holding my breath even before walking through the front door. not surprisingly, i could never hold it long enough.
ironically, the art of holding one’s breath was also taught when we got to the actual lessons. as it turns out, a big gulp of either water or bo and farts is something to be avoided at all costs.
our nasal palates were supposed to eventually be cleansed with the wonderfully pungent smell of the chemical guardian known as chlorine. it promised—in its own harsh way—to keep things clean and safe, and mask the stench of the first two smells.
based on my observations that summer, the scientists who created chlorine failed miserably.
once inside the locker room, our suffering continued. the enemy led with an assault on the senses then followed up with humiliation.
each day we had to undress in front of other boys, none of whom were especially eager to be publicly naked. then we had to stuff our belongings into lockers that had been used and abused by countless boys and men before us. the inside of each looked the same: dark from lack of light, old age and skid marks.
after putting on our swimming trunks, we had to shower before going into the pool area. i remember being struck by the irony of having to wash myself in this environment. it was like wiping my feet off on a welcome mat in a house with dirt floors and crawling with cooties.
from there we were herded out to the pool and forced to do things like jump into the deep end with the expectation we would float. sometimes i was able to pull it off without assistance, other times not so much.
even when i was successful it was never a pleasant experience dogpaddling in a thick stew of city water, chlorine and urine. well, at least my urine.
the last week of lessons was the worst part because we had to pass three tests:
1. prove beyond a reasonable doubt we could tread water for two minutes.
2. dive (not jump or slowly lower oneself) into the water.
3. swim freestyle the entire length of the pool.
i dreaded it all, especially the last one, because it was clear our drill instructors were not sympathetic to their recruits’ fears and doubts. they embodied the cliché of “sink or swim” and did not appear to care which way it went.
that summer i learned to fear and despise young christian men with whistles dangling from their necks.
i only agreed to attempt the last test with one non-negotiable condition: i do it within an arm’s reach of the edge of the pool. not just part of the way, but all the way. while i never had to “save” myself, it was the crutch i needed to successfully complete the task.
yet afterward i was humiliated instead of proud. after all, i was the only kid in the class to insist on a safety net. while others may have pleaded for something similar without me knowing, none were granted the mercy i was given.
i was a clever mind reader back then and knew with certainty i was the biggest coward in the group. while i had passed all the final exams, my childhood reputation was ruined.
looking back, it did not seem fair that we kids were the only ones to receive a grade. (for the record, i “passed.”) we never got to grade them on their reign in that house of horrors. with just a hint of bitterness, i believe it is never too late to set the record straight.
therefore, i have decided to issue not one but two letter grades. one for the experience itself and the second for what happened afterwards. as it turns out, both are pertinent.
my parents may not still be alive, but there may be some elderly drill instructors from that era who find my perspective interesting.
let’s begin with the experience that summer. perhaps not unexpectedly it deserves a “d” for depressing, distressing and downright dangerous.
long drives from the friendly confines of the suburbs to the much-dreaded inner city.
forced—as a young and impressionable little boy—to enter the oldest and dirtiest building i had ever been in.
shoved metaphorically (and sometimes almost literally) into the deep end, where water was eager to make its way into my tiny lungs.
(the only reason the experience does not get an “f” is because i cannot think of enough good adjectives starting with that letter.)
on the other hand, i have discovered that what happened afterwards was also deserving of a grade. in this case, a much better grade: an “a.”
learning how to swim—that is, to not die when in water—turned out to be a good thing. after all, it made going to public pools growing up, going on float trips as a teenager and swimming laps as an adult not only possible, but sometimes even fun.
of course, not everything that followed the trauma of those childhood swimming lessons was pleasant. indeed, they themselves proved to be traumatic.
· my sister screaming for help in the middle of a rock quarry filled with water.
· my toddler lying quietly at the bottom of a pool.
· another child of mine floating down a river crying out to dad for help. (incredibly, this happened not once, but twice.)
· my wife trapped under water beneath a log, convinced this is how she will die.
in each case it was up to me to help and i did. i passed my real life “sink or swim” moments. ironically, each time i was frightened for the other person’s sake, not mine.
the first of these water-related crises came at the age of 14, the last at 67 and the other three at 30-something.
while sitting beside a pond or stream usually makes my soul sing with delight, it can also vomit up water-related memories best left buried behind a firewall in the brain. during those times, my nose is filled with the smell of bo, farts and chlorine all over again.
i call it ymca ptsd.
my childhood fear of water still clings to me like seaweed. despite that, i have somehow been able to navigate some water crises over the years. that does not make me a hero, nor is it something of which i am proud. those things just happened.
who knew i would grow up to be what i once feared and despised? a christian man with a whistle dangling from my neck.
perhaps it was meant to be. or my parents knew what was coming. maybe both are true.
the experience itself that summer as a kid was, indeed, depressing, distressing and dangerous, infinitely worthy of a grade of “d.”
but what happened in the years afterwards deserves a much better grade. the dirty concrete streets from my past led to something good for both me and those i love.
“a” stands for amazing, affirming and adaptable.
· transforming from a scared little kid to a lifeguard was a journey i never saw coming.
· confidence in knowing i have the ability—at least sometimes—to overcome my fears and come through in a crisis.
· the ability—at least sometimes—to stay calm and do what needs to be done in a pinch.
so according to my math, an “a” and a “d” equal either a “b-“ or a “c+” as an overall final grade. i guess it depends on whether you see things as a glass half full or half empty. pun intended.
instead of letting me watch re-runs of “i love lucy” that summer, my parents made me sit through a season of “the twilight zone.”
in hindsight i am glad they did.
"you have just left a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of memory and irony. many years ago, a boy stood on a damp pool deck in the heart of the city, trembling at the edge of something vast and cold. for him, the water represented terror—an unforgiving adversary. but he stepped in anyway, each stroke a small victory over his fears. decades later, he returned to those same waters. no longer the frightened student, but the rescuer. he was afraid, yes—but not for himself. the great twist, of course, lay in the bitter sweetness of it all: a fear that once threatened to drown him became the very tool by which he saved others. his childhood nightmare had become an adult superpower. painful, but well. painful, but better. and so, he swims on, forever navigating the currents of the twilight zone."
###