I’m positive the unheated Ritzville swimming
pool was filled with water piped directly from
arctic glaciers.  The first day the pool was
open for the summer always brought 50 degree
air and water temperatures.  Nobody wanted to
swim until the water warmed up to at least 70
degrees.  But swimming lessons started on that
first day.

Every kid that entered the water turned Smurf
blue and instantly froze in place.  The local
hospital doubled their medical staff for the
first week of swimming.

I hated swimming lessons!  Why?  I couldn’t
swim!  Makes sense doesn’t it?  First, I was
afraid I’d drown.  Second, every lesson stole
time from my baseball career.

“Hold on to the gutter with both hands.  Let
your legs and body float up then kick your
legs,” Jughead, the instructor barked at 25
terrorized Munchkins. To get your body and
legs to float up you have to take your feet
off the bottom and put your face into the
water.  Hello!!!  This is how people drown
you idiot!  I ain’t doing it.

Sis was too stupid and scared so she did it
the first time. “Do it, Mac. It’s easy,” she
said repeatedly. “Shut up you little snot,”
I yelled. “It’s your fat little butt that
floats you to the top.  I don’t have one.”

By the end of the first week of lessons only
three of us remained unconverted, me, Rock
and Duncan.  Jughead said he was going to
take us to the deep end of the pool where
we could not touch bottom next week. Out of
fear, Duncan caught on over the weekend.
Rock was made of granite, hence the nickname.
Have you ever seen granite float?  He didn’t
show up the following Monday.  I, on the
other hand, was present for Monday’s test
because Iron Mom coerced me with threats
worse than drowning.

While the other 23 “swimmers” remained in
the shallow end learning how to stroke
properly, Chicken Little, that would be me,
went to the deep water.  Jughead was in the
water holding my legs near the surface while
I, still holding onto the gutter, started
to kick feebly.
  
“Great,” the instructor said.  “Now kick
harder.” Okay, you asked for it Jughead.  I
began kicking harder with the idea that a
kick to his mid-section or below would
bring an end to this torture.
  
His ploy worked.  I was kicking so hard
that I didn’t realize I was no longer
holding on to the gutter with white
knuckles.  I had kicked myself to near
exhaustion and gone limp.  Suddenly, I was
floating by myself. The gutter was about
two feet away.  Panicking, I swung my arms
forward, one after the other until I
reached the gutter.

“Great job, Mac,” Jughead praised.  “Let’s
try it again.” Holding the gutter, I took
a deep breath, laid out face down in the
water and let go. I did it again. I floated
out then stroked my way back to the side of
the pool.

In a weak moment later that morning I said
to Sis, “I love swimming lessons!”  Big
mistake!  What I meant was I love swimming,
but certainly not the lessons. Sis blabbed
and Mom signed us up for two more weeks of
lessons.  As I said before, swimming
lessons seriously cut into my baseball
career.