And then there was that canoe trick.
Joseph Mackareth
Every summer, no matter what, I was enrolled in swim class. I must have taken lessons for six or more years. While that sentence may lead you to assume that I am practically a female Michael Phelps, you’d be wrong. I never, no matter how hard I tried, passed the Beginner test.
How is that even possible? Because I took “country” swimming lessons. There was no diving board. There was no chlorine. There were no concession stands or locker rooms. There was grass, a dilapidated dock hanging onto the edge of a largish pond or a smallish lake, depending on your age and perspective. When I was five, Olanksy’s Pond looked like an ocean.
Our instructor was Mr. Baskins, a former Marine who wore red swim trunks with the life guard insignia embroidered on them. I do not know what he looked like with more clothes on than that and frankly, have trouble imagining him wearing anything else. Pretty sure that even if he were forced to wear a suit, those life guard trunks would be underneath, ready to spring into hero mode. You know, like Clark Kent had the Superman ensemble on underneath his business attire, ready to go at a moment’s notice.
Mr. Baskins looked like he’d been a Marine. Mr. Baskins acted like he’d been a Marine. If ever there was a poster boy for people who’d retired from the military, it was Mr. Baskins. He was compact, all muscles, and had the shortest hair you could have and still claim to have hair. When Mr. Baskins spoke, you listened. He didn’t do any of the typical Hollywood-style drill sergeant barking. No, he was quiet and somehow that made him even scarier.
Mr. Baskins took his role seriously. As far as he was concerned, he was preparing us for our mission. Our mission was to be unsupervised country kids every summer, which could indeed be dangerous. We had access to farm equipment, animals, ponds and rivers. We all went fishing or swimming almost daily. Remember, no one except the movie theaters and hospitals had air conditioning when I was little, so being near or in the water was crucial to abating heat-induced crankiness.
"No one cared about learning to swim for themselves, but one day a puppy might need saving so we must all master the breast stroke."
The smallest children in class were sometimes afraid to put their faces in the water. I can still hear Mr. Baskins. “You are not made of sugar. You’re not going to melt.”
That was a new concept, difficult to grasp by someone who’s already suspicious about this whole face-in-pond-water idea. Upon hearing this, some kids thought their faces might melt off if they put them in the water. Often someone would start whimpering. That’s when we’d get “the speech.” It was the same speech every year. It was Mr. Baskins’ big motivational piece.
“You want to be the best swimmer ever, don’t you? You want to make your mama and daddy proud, don’t you? You want your parents to be glad they paid for swimming lessons, don’t you?”
And then came the big closer. “If you see a puppy drowning, you want to be such a strong swimmer that you can save it, don’t you? I mean, you don’t want to have to stand on the bank helpless because you didn’t learn to swim, right?”
Every year, that’s the sentence that pushed every chubby-cheeked face right into the water. No one cared about learning to swim for themselves, but one day a puppy might need saving so we must all master the breast stroke.
So I learned the Australian crawl, the back stroke, the butterfly and everything else Mr. Baskins threw at us with one exception. Because this was country swimming, one of the test items on the Beginner exam was to pull yourself out of the water and into a canoe without sinking the canoe. It made sense. The probabilities were pretty good that we’d upset a boat at some point and need to be able to get back into it.
I could never do it. I had the upper body strength of a newborn kitten. Everyone else in class, year after year, made it. Everyone else hoisted themselves into the canoe and passed into the Intermediate class. Everyone but me. Lord knows I tried. The first year, I exhausted myself giving it all I had. The next year, I had prepared by carrying around big piles of books trying to get stronger so I could heave myself into the canoe triumphantly. I was indeed a wee bit brawnier. I ended up tipping the canoe, sending a surprised Mr. Baskins into the drink. The next year, I pulled myself up on the edge of the canoe, catching the top of my two-piece bathing suit, embarrassing us all.
That beat up, green canoe was my childhood nemesis. I felt it sneering, taunting me. I was actually a good swimmer, but I could not lift my ballast end out of the water to save my life. That’s okay. I’m pretty sure saving a drowning puppy does not involve my old arch enemy, the canoe.
The story above appears in our July/August 2019 issue. For more subscribe today or log in to the digital edition with your active digital subscription. Thank you for your support!