Natatorial Anecdotes

Yes, I used a thesaurus to find that word.

I have quite a few memories from my time at the Sportsplex, the Mattagami River, Gilles Lake. Some of them good, some of them not. As I remember it, there was quite a bit of fun, some horseplay, too, hopefully always out of the public view. But sometimes not, either. What can I say? We were teens. Controlling us was like herding cats.

The lake and river were the most sought-after posts. We spent the entire winter cooped up in the Sportsplex, no windows, always humid, as depressing as a tomb when one spent one’s whole day in its confines. We never knew what the weather was like, unless there was such a deluge that we could hear the thumbing of the downpour on the roof. We only saw the sun when we were not scheduled to guard a swim and were left with a free hour; no long enough to go anywhere, but enough time to crash out on the patch of grass out back and catch some rays. So, to spend one’s summer out in the sun? Heaven!

There could be loneliness out there, too, depending on when one’s shifts at Gilles Lake or the Mattagami River were. In July, there were so many swimmers at the lake and river that there were four of us stationed at each site. Days were full. I’d arrive at the musty old guard shack at Gilles, drop the wood panel shutters, and fill out the log. We’d man the two chairs, 15 minutes at a time, the others basking in the sun, gaining the best tans of our lives. In August, on the other hand, the temperature slipped, the rains fell, the beaches emptied, and we were reduced to one per site. Owing to my living on Hart Street, I never worked at the Mattagami River, although I did hang out there on my off days when friends were stationed there, usually Jodie Russell, Sean Light, or Jeff Chevrier. I’d arrive later, some beer stashed in my backpack, and stow them away in the water tank of the Men’s toilet, where the water was colder than ice. After 8 pm, we’d lock everything up, retrieve the beer, and while away a couple hours before heading to Top Hats. But left alone for 8 hours there in those guard shacks? Mattagami’s was a narrow cinderblock room; Gilles’, a musty old wooden shack.

At Gilles, I’d only open one of the shutters, so that the wind would not howl through, carrying the icy rains with it. I’d wrap myself in a musty old wool blanket, one of many at hand there, one stripped from the bed in the back room. Yes, there was an old cot there. Use your imagination, in that regard. And I’d curl up and read what book I was lost in at the time, waiting for my sister to bring me what supper my mother would send up, talking, on occasion, on the phone with whomever was whiling away their hours at the river.

Once, I had to rescue an idiot. It was August. I was alone. He was drunk. He staggered up to the beach, stripped down to his jeans and plunged in, swimming out to the Hydro tower in the middle of the lake. It was a rare, hot day; but there was no one to guard, as the threat of swimmer’s itch at Gilles in August was another reason for the absence of everyone but me. I watched him make early swift progress, then none at all. So, I grabbed the guard board (sort of like a big surf board), and paddled out to him. I wouldn’t normally have been able to do that, leave the beach unattended, but as I said, there was no one else to guard. I paced him, telling him he’d never make it and to climb on board. He gasped at me to fuck off. His words. But I didn’t. I wasn’t going to let him drown, foul mouthed idiot that he was, or not. He finally climbed aboard having failed to reach the tower, but he was not pleased with my leisurely progress back to shore, so he paddled hard. Then said I was a “fuckin’ shitty lifeguard,” and stormed away. Ah, the memories.

One day, I got a call. Cold, rainy, windy day. It was Jodie, spending his cold shift at the river. He said, in a wildly thrilled voice, said “We can do anything! I mean anything! And nobody will say a thing.” What? I asked. He explained. He too had not bothered to open up much of the river site, deciding to wait to see if the day improved and swimmers arrived. It didn’t. They didn’t. His girlfriend did, though, and one thing led to another. And then Tory Kullas, our supervisor, did. She just walked right in on them, catching them in their state of somewhat undress. Tory stepped back outside, and closed the door gently behind her. Jodie and girlfriend composed themselves, the girlfriend left. And when Tory re-entered the guard shack, she didn’t say a word about what had just transpired. Not one word. She left after a few minutes, and before she’d gained her car, Jodie was on the phone with me. I gaped into the phone, not sure how to process what I’d just heard. Ah, good times.

One day in August, the Timmins Press arrived to report on how the local beaches had emptied out, due to a weeklong cold snap. The reporter asked Jeff if he would submit to being photographed. Jeff was bored, there were no swimmers, so he agreed; but he was chilled to the bone in his speedo and polyester guard’s tank top, so the report suggested he put on his jeans and jean jacket to warm up. The reporter also set Jeff up with his back to the water, to show that the beach was empty. Jeff didn’t think anything of it. Not until Fred Salvador, head of Parks and Rec, saw the picture in the Press. There was one of his lifeguards, back to the water, out of uniform, while on duty. He wanted Jeff fired on the spot. Tory eventually cooled Fred down and saved Jeff’s job but we were all given a stern talking to about “professionalism.” Like that helped. Jeff told me and Sean all about it over a beer at 8 pm.

There was quite a bit of boredom, as well. Time creeps and slows to a crawl and a stop while guarding a less than popular swim, most notably, the adult noon swim. One finds one timing swimmer’s laps to pass the time, and later finds oneself watching the clock tick, second by second, realizing that one cannot escape that swim, not once, that all one’s shifts will span its eternity.

During one such swim, I was guarding the shallow end of the pool, watching the thinly spread bathers swim laps, walk laps, hang off the buoy lines in conversation. I had not reached the point of stifling yawns, but I was not far from it, either. Adults were never as quick to enter the pool as the kids were, who were eager to gain as many seconds in the water for their money as possible. Adults, on the other hand, were more orderly, more composed and leisurely minded, and may spend quite some time in the sauna before even exiting the change room, so there were still a few leaking out on deck even thirty minutes into the swim. I was on my second position of the swim, my first seated, when I watched a middle-aged Asian gentleman exit the change room and make his way to the furthest corner from me of the shallow end. He stretched and reached, spun his arms to warm them up before entering the water. He had a well-sculptured pompadour. Okay, maybe not a pompadour, as the hair flowed around his head, beginning from behind his ear, drawn up to his forehead, before sweeping up and back over the top of his head. It was an unparalleled engineering feat. He dove in, with grace, with hardly a splash in his wake, and flowed beneath the surface for half the length of the pool before surfacing opposite me. His hair flowed behind him, as long as his shoulders at the back and on the left, no longer than an inch on the right. His glistening pate shone in the lights. I watched him swim back and forth, fascinated at the transformation. When Jodie relieved me after another ten minutes, I pointed the Asian gentleman out, and said, absolutely deadpan, “If you ever see me do that, take me out back and shoot me.”