Personal Best

Of course I am concerned about the German elections. I don’t know how an uneasy political coalition ruling the largest economy is going to affect the future. And yes, of course I am searching for a reason why the Afghan election turn-out is so much smaller than last year.

Maybe it means something, and maybe it doesn’t. Real democracy is still a bit of a novelty there, and goodness knows, we don’t vote here in huge percentages. And as for the North Koreans foregoing their nuclear program in exchange for a pledge from the U.S. that 20,000 troops from the Eight Army will not unilaterally storm the millions to the north. Ridiculous.

But forgive me if I bask a little bit in the triumph, and put the world aside for a moment. The continuing crisis will still be there tomorrow, and the day after. And the pool will be closed. The underwater light is still gleaming in the morning dimness, the water still glorious and exultantly blue.

But the pool is officially closed, and the yellow lounge chairs will disappear today, and by the end of the week the green shroud will appear, and soon enough the leaves will blow over it. And then the snow will come.

I am proud of the award, even if I invented myself. I founded it the year after the attacks on the city, and I view it as at least second or third in the hierarchy of pool life. There is best tan, of course, but there was never any hope in that category. Loren was deep bronze by June and never looked back. She may as well retire the George Hamilton Deep Tan trophy.

No one will begrudge her that, since she is so gracious in victory.

There is that guy from the seventh floor who swims a strong butterfly. He arguably is Best Swimmer, which would have more prestige if there was anyone competing with him. And there are dozens of other categories; Oldest and Still Able; worst Speedo on an Old Man; Most Disquieting Leer; Most Insistent on Following All the Rules. Best Gossip. They all know who they are, and there will be no requirement for an awards banquette.

But I like my category. It requires persistence, and excellent attention to detail. There is a distinct strategy, as well, and a certain stealthy cunning.

For the fourth consecutive year, I hold the title of First and Last.

I have never relinquished the trophy since I arrived here, cast up in my own personal storm, and shall not, at least while I dwell in Big Pink. Not willingly, anyway.

But this one is in the books. It is over, and I am victorious. Four years in a row. First in Big Pink’s pool, first minute, actually. The sun was still low on the West side of the building that bakes in the morning. I had been scoping the pool deck, logging in the arrival of the Lifeguard on that cool but sunny Memorial Day four months ago. I staged my towel on the patio, ready for a dash in case the water aerobics group managed to get their act together.

The Czech staff had not yet arrived for the summer, and the guy that opened the pool this year was the ex-air force kid who is going to grad school, or on an extended period of under-employment. He didn’t care if slipped in, and leaped into the cold waters. A minute or so before the official opening, albeit, just to make sure.

I splashed around, watching the building come awake on a Saturday. Leo the new maintenance guy fixed the heater problem, which for weeks had kept the water at just below the temperature required to cook a lobster. That was a problem. Some of the older folks liked it like that, but for a few weeks the pool was actually hotter than the moist warm air, and the only relief was a cold shower indoors, and then a refreshing shiver by the air conditioning unit.

That may be a problem next year. Fuel costs are through the roof to run the utilities, and the people on fixed incomes will fight an increase in the condominium fees to accommodate them. I predict that Global Warming will manifest itself first in restrictions on our air conditioning. Mark my words.

But this year the temperature was perfect, and the weather was generally fine. I had the First Plunge locked up, and the question was whether I could keep my concentration down the stretch. I maintained my pace and stamina, appearing each weeknight just before closing, conditioning the staff to remain to the last moment.

It was nip-and-tuck with the storms. The regular season ended with Labor Day and the departure of the Czechs. We had a near approach with Ophelia, but that storm brushed North Carolina and ricocheted off into the Atlantic . The storms that are coming now, however fierce, will be too late to affect the competition.

Rita is the 17 th tropical storm of the season, and may be the ninth hurricane. It is pressing the Bahamas and the Keys today, and there is a month or more of the storm season to go.

I was last in that night, and could at least claim the regular-season championship. But we were entering the play-offs. Management had succumbed to our pleas, and agreed to open the pool for two last glorious weekends, Saturday and Sunday only. I watched the cool water during the week, the gate locked against us. I scanned the weather forecast, hoping for sun. Storms or clouds could fore an early closing and dash my hopes for a four-peat of my triumph.

Last weekend was good. Marginal sun on Saturday, triumphant tanning on Sunday. Then the work-week, and the Last Weekend.

Saturday was bittersweet. Nearly everyone put in an appearance, and the West Side of the deck with the best sun was crowded. Marty 2 was there, and Loren, of course, and old Jack peered out from Tony’s patio, and the Third Infantry Division was visiting Susan.

Sunday dawned the same way, but the crowd was light. The South African got her strange pale boyfriend to actually come down, and Margaret was there for the last couple hours. But it was eerily empty on the pool deck. It was almost as if people had figured out something else to do, watch football, perhaps, or go to an art gallery now that the tourists have departed for the season.

The gossip is going to dry up as we burrow into our units for the Fall and Winter. Eight months ahead with no fellowship under the bright sun. The water was cold and refreshing.

The forecasters blew it; the clouds were just enough to keep my interest up. I read the novel that I will not finish this season, and left the pool deck when the sun went behind the tree in the church parking lot next door. I cooked dinner and watched the late game from the West Coast with an eye on the clock. I looked out the window every couple minutes to ensure that the lock was not on the gate.

I grabbed my towel at 7:40 pm and emerged from my lair. The gate was still open. The couple that use loud argument as foreplay were just coming up the walk and saw me. Busted.

“Last dip, eh?” said the guy.

“That’s right, they close the pool tonight!” said the girl. “Let’s hurry, honey.”

Damn, I thought. Competiton!

I nodded to Eric, who was slumped in his deck chair in the gloom. He has to start a real job this week and he is not happy with the prospect. I walked to the deep end and jumped in, the water rejuvenating and crisp. I treaded water, waiting to see what might develop. Sure enough, the romantic couple appeared, still tugging their suits. They walked in at the shallow end, and laughed and splashed each other, embracing in the coolness.

I stayed there until the stroke of eight, and Eric got up and said it was over. I let them get out first, as they laughed and touched each other, reluctant to leave the moment. I kept an eye on them until they were clear of the gate. It was done. First and Last in the pool, four years running.

A personal best.

Eric was gathering his things, which included that thick Clinton autobiography. He has been struggling with it all summer.

Based on the position of the bookmark, he seems to be closing in on finishing it. I asked him how it was, and if the President got the girl in the end.

Copyright 2005 Vic Socotra

www.vicsocotra.com

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