An ode to swimming: Taking the plunge helps drown out the noise

LeBron James. Tea Party candidates. ‘King’ LeBron James. The Gulf oil spill. LeBron James ‘The Chosen One.’
The noise of the world as it hums along boils the inside of the brain as much as the summer sun beats down and burns the skin.
There’s only one measure of recourse when the mind and body get overheated.
Take a dip. Get underwater and eliminate the roar of the world.
They’re ain’t no cure for the summer time blues like swimming. Get in a pool and do some laps. I prefer the doggie paddle (well, it’s not so much of a preference as it’s the only stroke I’m good at.) Play a game of Marco Polo with your friends. Or just sink to the bottom clutching your knees like Benjamin Braddock in “The Graduate.”
Of course, here in Manistee, swimming pools aren’t necessary with the Big Lake just at the end of the street.
In the past two weeks, I’ve made a point to rush into the water at all of Manistee’s great beaches: First Street, Fifth Avenue and the ‘Water Tower’ Beach. This past weekend, I even went down to the Nordhouse Dunes, hiked a few miles, then made a dash for the cool waters of Lake Michigan when I got too sweaty.
The water was just fine.
I’m going to relish these swimming spots the rest of the summer. I’ve never had access to such great ones.
In my youth, there were swimming pools that were my favorites. I didn’t grow up with a pool in any of the backyards of the houses I lived in, but my Grandpa Basil had one at his house on Detroit’s west side. It was where I first learned to swim and spent hours of the summertime submerged, splashing and screaming with joy.
Grandpa Basil was a loud, gregarious Southerner from Arkansas who ran his own painting business. It was a good thing, too, because this particular pool needed to be painted every year. Only later did I learn that having to paint a pool is kind of unusual.
From the time I was able to walk, I helped throughout the entire process of prepping the pool, which usually started around Memorial Day.
“Boy, come on out here and help me with this pump!” Grandpa Basil would holler in his drawl.
He could have done it all himself -- he was a master at fixing things -- but always made a point to have me and my brother help out, probably to keep us busy and out of trouble.
The pool was reflective of the 1960s chic cabana style that still dominated my grandparents backyard in the 1980s and ‘90s. The overhang off the garage where the barbecue and picnic table were was always decorated with old-school tiki lights. The grill was hooked up not to a propane tank, but the actual gas lines running below the city. The pool itself was in-ground, oval, made of fiberglass and was always painted a bright blue. It looked like a giant Smurf bathtub embedded in their small backyard.
It was all very fancy stuff in 1967.
By 1984, the backyard was still respectable and in operation, but not gleaming with brand newness like it had twenty years earlier.
So, there was work to be done. First, you had to pump the dirty, brackish water that had been in the pool all fall and winter, and clean out all the leaves. Guess who got to go into the pool when the water was mostly drained and scoop up the slimy leaves and other debris with a bucket and haul it out?
“Boy, get on down there and get them leaves!”
I got very dirty and mucky and loved every minute of it.
Once all the gunk was out, we had to let the pool dry for a few days before laying in with the scrapers. It was always a group effort, with my grandma, mom, dad and brother scraping away the old paint and sanding the rough, fiberglass surface of the pool smooth. During the three or so days it took to scrap and sand, I’d accompany Grandpa Basil to Craigie Paint Company and get the bright blue aqua-colored paint.
“Boy, carry these buckets out to the truck,” Grandpa Basil would say while chewing on an unlit cigar.
They were so heavy I had to do them one at a time.
The top lip of the pool needed to be painted by hand. Since I was always too young to be trusted with a roller, this is where I’d help out, usually ending up getting more paint on myself than on the pool.
My brother usually got the honor of rolling the inside, standing in the bottom of the tub-like pool, going up and down the curved sides.
After two coats and a few days to dry, it was time to fill it up. Grandpa Basil always let me do the honors
“Boy, go get that hose turned on!”
I’d already have my bathing suit on even though it took an entire day until the pool was filled. I’d crank on the hose, yank it to the pool and stick it in.
Then, I’d wait. When the water was ankle-high, I’d walk in and splash around, then get bored and wait some more.
It was usually the next day before it was ready. If he wasn’t fussing with the perennially naughty pool filter that grunted away inside the garage, Grandpa Basil would be sitting on the deck with a cigar, the racing form and perhaps a gin and tonic.
I’d stand at the edge of the deep end and take that first thrilling dive of summer. Inside the house, while lunches and dinners were prepared, I would swim and swim and swim. There were jumping contests with cannon balls, jack knives and belly flops. There was water polo with overturned lawn chairs as goals. And sometimes, just before dinner, when everyone else was out of the pool except for me, I’d just sort of lazily float around on my back.
“Look at that boy!” Grandpa Basil would say from the porch. “He sure can float!”
Grandpa Basil’s been dead for ten years now, and the house in Detroit sold soon after that. But I learned something very important those long summer days in the pool -- when life gets too hot, just jump in some cool water.
All the world’s problems won’t go away, but for the few moments you can hold your breath underwater, they can be silenced.