Well, that is it. Done, fini, over.

Mary Margaret took the opportunity to throw a party on Joe’s patio, starting whenever, and events swept us away with a rush as powerful as the jet of the filler nozzle at the deep end of the pool.

I was ambivalent. I got back up north with the beach umbrella from the farm and a DVD player to get the entertainment center fully operational. The day was lovely, scattered clouds but bright and luminous. Milos told me the water temperature was unchanged from Saturday: 73. I shivered when he told me, and I set about cleaning up and trying to deflect the realization of just how cold I was going to be after a half hour in the water.

There is a heater for the pool- but it is busted, and there is nothing in the Big Pink budget to fix it, considering that some major structural work needs to be done, and there is no point in fixing something that will be torn out next year.

Amy and a few diehards were camped out on the blue and white recliners, soaking up the last of the thin sunshine. There was nothing for it but to do it. I fixed the waterproof case for the iPod on my right arm, kicked off my flip-flops and jumped in.

It was not the Pacific Ocean in San Diego; it was not Narragansett Bay; it was, however, goddamn cold. My brain did the bright-light of shock as I entered and it stayed piercingly chill until I clocked 45 minutes, listening to NPR’s “On the Media,” which confirmed everything I thought about the state of journalism, and quite a bit about the post-9/11 expansion of the National Security State.

I don’t know which was worse- the chill of the water or the chill of what has evolved over the last dozen years. I marveled that my stay in this building- and this pool- almost matches the Global War on Whatever to the day.

I clambered back out of the pool and began shaking. It took twenty minutes under a scalding hot shower to get the quivering to stop, and then dressed for winter.

Joe and Mary Margaret were sitting out on Joe’s patio, and they asked me over and that is when things careened over the top of the hill and began the long plunge into darkness.

The crowd grew as the sun went down; food appeared, and bottles of liquor and wine. New residents were intimidated into joining the party, and laughter rose, tinged with the “can’t believe it is almost all over.” At one point there were at least five dogs weaving through people’s legs, and I realized it was nearly time to prepare.

I snuck off and donned my still-wet trunks and flip flops. The trunks were dank and clammy, but of course by that time Jiggs and Joe and Mardy 2 were stripping down and preparing for The Last Plunge.

The party migrated onto the pool deck, and flashes of light from cell phones and cameras lit the night. The four of us jumped in. Still freaking cold, but there was enough antifreeze in all of us to make it merry.

We did some publicity shots for the crowd and splashed around until the minute hand on the clock clicked over 8:00pm. Then we were cold enough to call it a season. I watched carefully to ensure that everyone was out before I climbed up the ladder.

We gave Mylos a nice card that we all signed and then wandered back to Joe’s patio to let him lock the gate for the last time. “Ziabichya!” I shouted to him.

It was the only Polish I learned this season, and the sentiment certainly fit the bill.

They were still on a roll when I slipped away to get out of the wet trunks, and once I was toweled down, and into some flannel jammies, decided the bed looked pretty good.

So, I was up at three-thirty to start the rest of the year.

Ziabichya.

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303