POND SWIM

Today I have the bright idea of hitting the local pond as soon as it opens at noon.  It's not so much a bright idea as a necessity because after tanning outside for an hour while reading a book, I am dripping sweat in this heat.  (Yes, a charming visual.) 

When I get to the pond, though, I realize what a goofball idea this is.  For a while, I am the only other adult at the pond other than the college-aged lifeguards, if you can count them truly as adults.  There are little kids having swim lessons, day-camp kiddos running along the sand, and tweeners splashing the crap out of each other in the water, constantly being whistled to by the guards.

I set up my chair and read a magazine.  I am not there two minutes when a family comes and sets up one foot from where I am.  Mind you, the beach itself is fairly deserted, but apparently I am in "their spot," and there's no way they're giving up "their spot."  I read half the magazine when I suddenly see my opening to swim.

All the little kids have been jacketed up and are corralled into the middle of the big pond, out beyond the swimming area, shepherded by counselors on paddle boards.  The tweeners are back in the shallow part of the pond, primping for more tweeners who have arrived.  The deeper part of the swimming area is completely deserted.

Wading in, I duck under the marker rope between shallow and deep, sink into the water up to my neck, and swim out toward the far marker buoys.  One of the guards and I are the only ones beyond the line, he on the dock and me in the water.  He is recovering from the mad whistle-blowing of a few minutes prior.

"Quiet here all of a sudden," I say, swimming by.

He shakes his head.  "Sorry about the noisy kids."

I grin.  "I'm a teacher.  I deal with that every day."

"Yeah, but, ugh.  Middle schoolers!"

"That's what I teach," I respond and swim away toward the far end of the pond. 

I continue swimming back and forth and back and forth for twenty minutes.  I am tempted to get out and kayak the pond, but it's so comfortable here right now.  I look over and check on my chair and my stuff and decide that my new-found beach family will ward off any interlopers. 

It's beautiful here today.  There was a time when "beautiful" and "pond" didn't not exist in the same sentence when referring to this place, but today the water sparkles blue, the trees are lush, and the sand is clean.  From the water I see hawks circling along the tree line, and several large nests are visible in trees off to the left, far from where swimming, kayaking, and the scout camp occupy water space.  It's hard to believe I'm not up in the mountains somewhere -- it is that wonderful here today.

I float around until the tweeners re-invade the area.  A couple of adults finally wade into the water, but I'm done at this point.  Back under the rope I go, back to my adopted semi-family who share my sandy space.  I sit for a short while then decide there's no reason to stay, pack up, wrap my towel around me, and drive two miles home thinking that maybe this was a decent idea, after all.