My Favorite Water Sport, by Will Stanton

I suppose I could regard this
topic of “My Favorite Water Sport” to be rather presumptuous. It assumes that I
engage in a variety of water sports, let alone doing any at all – – which I
don’t.  I never have.
I do, however, swim
frequently; and I have done that most of my life.  Of course for me, that’s not a sport.  Swimming would fall under the athletic
heading of “physical education and recreation,” that is, I do it for exercise
and health.  Ergo, “re-creation.”
My parents taught me very
young to swim, probably starting around two or three.  We would go frequently to the university
swimming pool.  I never have enjoyed
being exposed to chlorine, but the indoor pool had the advantage of being open
during inclement and cold weather.
I actually signed up for, and
completed, a life-guard class so that I could get a job at the city pool during
the summer.  The teacher, however, after
the class was completed, refused to give me my certificate because she said
that, at age fifteen, I was too young.  I
had to be sixteen.  Thanks a lot!  Why didn’t she tell me that at the start?
By the time I was twenty, I
had developed sufficient breath capacity that I could swim 2 ¼ lengths of the
pool under water in one breath.  Now that
I am superannuated, I don’t even put my face under.
During summers, my brother and
I used to go to the city pool.  That was
the setting for my first sexual dream, “seeing” a girl swimming under water,
nude.  I wasn’t all that fond of the city
pool.  It was situated near the junk yard
next to the river, which occasionally flooded the whole area including the
pool.  My knowing what was in that
flood-water did not thrill me very much. 
And, that flooding didn’t even have anything to do with the “Baby Ruth”
that I saw floating there one day.
During some summers, I swam in
a variety of lakes.  There were two
man-made lakes nearby.  Also, my family
and I did some camping near lakes, and we invariably swam.  I recall one called “Crystal Lake,“ and it
certainly was.  The lake had a pure
white, sandy bottom with nothing growing and with no fish.  I could look straight down to the
bottom.  I also attended several summer
camps, and, of course, they always were situated adjacent to lakes.
On several occasions, I swam
in the ocean.  I did not care for the
salt and the waves and, sometimes, cold, especially on the North-Atlantic
coast.  I especially was wary of the
Portuguese men-of-war floating about or on the beach in Florida.
 At least, I did not suffer the fate of the
scuba-diver off the lighthouse point who was pulled under and killed by a giant
squid.  Those who recovered his body
claimed that, from the size of the sucker marks on him, that the squid may have
been sixty feet long.  That sounds rather
extreme, but recent explorations have filmed squid bigger than that. That could
not have been a very enjoyable way to go.
I still swim several days per
week at the pool here in the city.  That
assumes, of course, that it is not shut down again for maintenance.  As I said before, I now am superannuated; therefore,
I choose to attend the “seniors swim hour,” which I refer to as “the old farts’
swim.” 
 

Elderly Man Swimming
During summers when they have
had youth swimming classes just before ours, and the boys in the locker room
see us shambling wrecks of dissipated humanity, I wonder what they think.  Or perhaps, they, being so young, cannot
relate to us.  Perhaps they regard us as
non-human aliens.       
Young Swimmer
© 22 Oct 2016 
About
the Autho
I have had a life-long fascination with
people and their life stories.  I also
realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or
fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual
ones.  Since I joined this Story Time
group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

One Summer Afternoon by Lewis

When I was a child, my parents didn’t take a “family vacation” some summers. Instead, they sent me off to summer camp, which was enough vacation for them, I guess. On one such occasion, they sent me off for an interminable ten days to a YMCA camp called “Camp Wood”. I was about nine years old and an only child. I was introverted and a non-swimmer. For me, swimming was, to quote Bill Cosby, “staying alive in the water”. I had allergies and my sinuses were constantly inflamed. If chlorinated water got up my nose, it felt like someone had set my snot on fire. Therefore, if I was in water more than four feet deep, out came my nose plugs. It was swimming that kept me from getting beyond a “Star” rank in Boy Scouts.

When I got to Camp Wood, I soon discovered that it was organized a little like a country club. The lake had two beaches–the shallow one with the kiddy swings for the non-swimmers and the cool beach with the deeper water and the water slide for the swimmers. I was a few years older than almost all the kids on the kiddy beach and was going to make myself absolutely miserable unless I could graduate to the older boys’ beach. To do that meant that I would have to swim from the edge of the kiddy beach out to a floating dock about 50 yards out into the lake. From where I stood on the edge of the water at the kiddy beach, the dock looked to me to be only one or two strokes closer than hell itself. Not only that, but there would be kids and adults nearby watching me. Who knows if they were rooting for me to make it or were hoping to see something their parents would be most interested hearing about?

There was a lifeguard standing on the dock. He looked to me to be a young man of about 17. I’m not very good at judging these things, as I never had an older brother or even a male relative under 21. I suspect that it was only the prospect of that young man coming to my rescue that gave me the courage needed to attempt to swim toward the raft.

I would give anything to see a home movie of my valiant effort to look graceful while flailing all four skinny limbs in a desperate attempt to keep from consuming too much of the lake. By the time I reached the dock, I was totally exhausted, a fact that I’m sure was obvious to the young man looking worriedly down at me. Nevertheless, one got no credit for merely reaching the dock. No. One had to swim back to the shore from whence I had come.

I’m sure the lifeguard offered me his hand. But I was too embarrassed and determined to pass the test, so I turned back toward shore hoping against hope that I would find the strength somehow to make it all the way. Well, I only made it a few yards before I started to flounder. The lifeguard was on me in a couple of seconds, lifting me up and putting me under his arm to sweep me back to the safety of the dock.

“This must be what it feels like to be Sleeping Beauty,” I thought. No, not really. But it did feel pretty sweet, though humiliating.

None of the other campers ever mentioned my fiasco, nor did I ever tell my parents about it. Camp ended on a much higher note, when I placed first in the broad jump in the track meet on the last morning of camp. Somehow, solid ground just seems to suit me better.

© 17 June 2013

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

Clothes by Lewis

[I would like to begin by looking back at what happened last week with the topic being “The Person I Fall in Love with Should Be…”. As we were leaving, I was feeling disheartened for two reasons: 1) I realized that the topic I had been responsible for was not inclusive of those in the group who are in a committed relationship. It essentially left them with almost nothing to say. I apologize for that and will not allow that to happen again. 2) One of our participants made it very clear that they were not at all happy with the word “should” and made quite a point of saying that “should” is a word that should never be used as part of a topic. I wonder if we want to engage in such disparagement of a topic, especially if, as was the case last week, the originator of that topic is present.

One more comment: We have been very clear that no one is required to write on the “topic of the week”. However, I think that it is conducive to the creative process to make those deviations the exception, rather than the rule. Hearing diverse perspectives on the same topic is what makes for a stimulating hour-and-a-half and also forces us to channel our creative forces in constructive ways. ‘Nuff said about process.]

Clothes are worn for many purposes: style, status, and modesty for three. I’m going to talk about a fourth: body image. People tend to model what they think is going to “surprise and delight” the casual observer or, perhaps, significant other. Popular opinion has a way of letting someone know when they have stepped over the line of decorum and/or vogue. As a repressed exhibitionist with an eroticized libido, I have been an avid follower of these taboos for most of my life. There exists in modern American society a very distinct double-standard when it comes to the line between dress that titillates and that which commits sensory trespass.

I would like to share with you a letter written to Annie’s Mailbox advice column that was published in the Denver Post on June 29, 2003, along with the response from the columnists, Kathy Mitchell and Marcy Sugar, —

[Read letter from photocopy.]

The key to understanding the present state of our society is in the first paragraph of the response:

“Most 14-year-old boys would not be willing to put up with the teasing that Jonah is getting from his peers. Stylish or not, they would stop wearing the swimsuits. Either Jonah has tremendous self-assurance or he is enjoying these bikinis on an entirely different level.”

I have to wonder–what level would that be? The same level upon which girls of that age might enjoy wearing a bikini? I don’t think that is what is meant at all. As the responders also write, “Bikinis and thongs usually indicate something more sensual. Exhibitionism and cross-dressing are possibilities but they aren’t the only ones.” What, exactly might the others be? Homosexuality? Pedophilia? Has anyone ever asked models for the Sports Illustrated swim suit issue if they are exhibitionists? And to even suggest that “Jonah” might be a cross-dresser is to imply that thongs and bikinis are the sole province of the female gender, which is begging the very question that I am asking: Isn’t what is good for the gander also good for the goose?

When I was about 10 years old, I took a swimming class at the Hutchinson, KS, YMCA. The rules were that swimming suits were not allowed in the pool, as they might carry germs. We had to shower before we got into the pool, as well as after. I was terrified but soon got comfortable with letting it all hang out. By the time my own children were about that age, boys did not even take their swimming suits off to shower after swimming. Why the vast difference? I would welcome any and all ideas on this.

In 1990, my wife, kids and I set out for Disney World in Orlando. Wanting to appear “with it”, I bought my first pair of “surfer-style” swim trunks just for the occasion. When we went to the water park, the first thing on the kids’ agenda was the huge, serpentine water slide. Not wanting to appear skittish or square, I enthusiastically joined them. Just one problem: about 6 feet down the slide, my ridiculously bulky “trunks” grabbed hold of the slide and held on for dear life. I had to “scoot” down the remaining three stories of slide while trying not to get “rear-ended” by an unsuspecting kiddie. I have worn nothing but trusty Speedos ever since. Yes, sometimes I do feel a little “over-exposed” but at least I don’t carry a gallon of water with me whenever I get out of the pool.

[As an illustration of the fact that America’s discomfort with the male form is not universal, I am passing around a copy of Down Under: To glorify the Australian lifesaver. I have flagged a few pertinent pages.]

© September 22, 2014

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

One Summer Afternoon by Lewis

When I was a child, my parents didn’t take a “family vacation” some summers. Instead, they sent me off to summer camp, which was enough vacation for them, I guess. On one such occasion, they sent me off for an interminable ten days to a YMCA camp called “Camp Wood”. I was about nine years old and an only child. I was introverted and a non-swimmer. For me, swimming was, to quote Bill Cosby, “staying alive in the water”. I had allergies and my sinuses were constantly inflamed. If chlorinated water got up my nose, it felt like someone had set my snot on fire. Therefore, if I was in water more than four feet deep, out came my nose plugs. It was swimming that kept me from getting beyond a “Star” rank in Boy Scouts.

When I got to Camp Wood, I soon discovered that it was organized a little like a country club. The lake had two beaches–the shallow one with the kiddy swings for the non-swimmers and the cool beach with the deeper water and the water slide for the swimmers. I was a few years older than almost all the kids on the kiddy beach and was going to make myself absolutely miserable unless I could graduate to the older boys’ beach. To do that meant that I would have to swim from the edge of the kiddy beach out to a floating dock about 50 yards out into the lake. From where I stood on the edge of the water at the kiddy beach, the dock looked to me to be only one or two strokes closer than hell itself. Not only that, but there would be kids and adults nearby watching me. Who knows if they were rooting for me to make it or were hoping to see something their parents would be most interested hearing about?

There was a lifeguard standing on the dock. He looked to me to be a young man of about 17. I’m not very good at judging these things, as I never had an older brother or even a male relative under 21. I suspect that it was only the prospect of that young man coming to my rescue that gave me the courage needed to attempt to swim toward the raft.

I would give anything to see a home movie of my valiant effort to look graceful while flailing all four skinny limbs in a desperate attempt to keep from consuming too much of the lake. By the time I reached the dock, I was totally exhausted, a fact that I’m sure was obvious to the young man looking worriedly down at me. Nevertheless, one got no credit for merely reaching the dock. No. One had to swim back to the shore from whence I had come.

I’m sure the lifeguard offered me his hand. But I was too embarrassed and determined to pass the test, so I turned back toward shore hoping against hope that I would find the strength somehow to make it all the way. Well, I only made it a few yards before I started to flounder. The lifeguard was on me in a couple of seconds, lifting me up and putting me under his arm to sweep me back to the safety of the dock.

“This must be what it feels like to be Sleeping Beauty”, I thought. No, not really. But it did feel pretty sweet, though humiliating.

None of the other campers ever mentioned my fiasco, nor did I ever tell my parents about it. Camp ended on a much higher note, when I placed first in the broad jump in the track meet on the last morning of camp. Somehow, solid ground just seems to suit me better.

17 June 2013

About
the Author  


I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.