Taking the plunge

By Jack Elliott
Correspondent

Up front, I want to gratefully acknowledge the love and caring given me by my wife, the Pearl of the Orient. If it wasn’t for the Pearl’s, supervision and suppression of my glutinous appetite, and attendant prodding to insure I get a modicum of exercise, I would probably be long dead. So, if you don’t like my musings, you know whom to blame.
However, at 4:30 in the morning, three times a week, I am not quite so generous with my praise.
“Elliott, roll your carcass out of the sack. You look like something off Wild Kingdom,” she states as I open one eye part way and survey the gloom out the window.
“...something like that anaconda that’s swallowed a pig! Let’s get cracking,” the Pearl continues, tossing my bathing suit at my still prone body. The odour of chlorine from the still soggy suit wends its way up my nostrils and permeates my brain, causing something close to consciousness.
“Got everything? The keys, your wallet, passport, and swim bag?” prods the Pearl as minutes later we enter the garage.
“Of course I do! What do you think I am some sort of idiot?” I fire back indignantly.
After determining the keys for the truck won’t work in the van, I stagger back into the house to pick up the right ones, at the same time retrieving my wallet, passport, and swim bag.
We hit the entrance to the pool at the same time as a handful of other catatonic zombies, and mumble barely coherent greetings at each other. All except one. Unfailingly cheerful, Paul is all smiles, chuckles, and good humour. We mutter and glare, but there is no discouraging the manic insomniac.
Some split seconds after plunging into the pool, full consciousness finally hits along with the panic reflex to keep from drowning. Sputtering and choking, I stagger to the surface and start in to my routine.
“One...two...three... Only a half million more to go,” I think and settle down to a rhythm, all my muscles and joints complaining bitterly. After five minutes my teeth have stopped chattering and the sharp twinges have subsided to a dull ache.
Half an hour in, the endorphins are starting to kick in and I’m feeling great. I note with some pleasure the svelte form of the young lifeguard as she glides effortlessly around the pool eyeing the geriatric ménage churning up the water. I note her eyes keep drifting towards me.
“Must look pretty good for an old toot, to receive that kind of attention,” I smile, my ego swelling.
I turn up the pace a bit. She seems to notice. I turn it up a bit more.
I start my porpoise jumps, as high above the surface as I can manage. She’s really looking now.
I suck in my gut and head towards the sky.
The rotten old draw string on my suit protests by snapping as I break the surface.
As I continue up, my trunks head down.
I hit the water and in panic spread my legs to stop the complete escape of my trunks. I head for the bottom to complete the rescue. Someplace along in there, I realize I should shut my mouth and stop breathing. Choking spouting, and gasping like a harpooned humpback, I fight my way back to the surface, my dignity covered, barely.
Miss Lifeguard in all her sveltness is kneeling at the edge of the pool peering at me.
“Are you all right, sir?” she asks panic racing across her face.
Right then the endorphins stop working and a vicious charliehorse grips my left leg, drawing a moan of anguish from my now purple lips. I once again slip towards the bottom of the pool.
Quickly one of those svelte, strong arms, grasps my shoulder and steadies me at the pool edge.
“You should take it easier. That was a pretty strenuous workout for an old ma..., er, elderly gentleman like you. I thought you might be having a coronary,” exclaims the concerned voice of Miss Svelte.
But the look of horror on her face conveys the real truth, “ I thought I was going to have to give you mouth-to-mouth, you old toot! Gross! Eeeeyhew!”
My humiliation is complete.