Nothing
Up My Sleeve
Jon
Gallagher
Sink
or Swim
You’re
never too old to learn something new.
Never
quit.
Those
are two of my philosophies in life.
I haven’t always had them, but since I’ve adopted them, I seem to
accomplish a whole lot more.
About
ten years ago, I was planning to take my two daughters and my fiancé to Florida
to do the Disney World thing. I’d
always wanted to go visit The Mouse, but my parents never had the resources to
take a vacation like that. I
wanted my kids to be able to do stuff that I never did.
I
saved up all my tips from delivering pizzas for more than a year. I added the money I made mowing a large
lawn during the summer, and before I knew it, I had enough to pay for two
adults and two kids to take the vacation of a lifetime.
Since
we were going to spend a week in the Sunshine State, we decided to devote one
day to travelling to Daytona Beach and spending our time there swimming in the
Atlantic Ocean and frolicking on the beach.
That
wasn’t going to be a problem for three of us. See, my kids started going to summer swimming lessons as
soon as they were offered. Both of
them were quite good and neither had a problem going off the diving board into
the deep end.
My
fiancé was also quite skilled in aquatics. She’d been sent to swimming lessons just after she learned
to walk, so she was excited about the possibility of finding some dolphins that
she could swim with.
The
three girls were fish. I, on the
other hand, had the swimming skills of a bowling ball. I’d never learned how to swim. There was no reason to learn. I didn’t go on boats, I’d never seen an
ocean, and when I did go to the pool, I tried to stay in shallow enough water
that I didn’t get my swim trunks wet.
Once
in high school, I’d been on an overnight band trip where we got to stay at a
motel. This particular motel had a
swimming pool where a bunch of us elected to spend our free time. Someone knocked me off the side
of the pool and into the deep end.
I flailed away, trying to get back to the edge, but I was too busy
panicking to do any actual swimming.
I must not have been thinking clearly because I evidently decided rather
than to swim to the side, I’d just drink the pool and walk out.
Somehow,
and I think it had to do with God reaching down and giving me a nudge toward
the side of the pool, one of my flailing hands hit cement and I held on. I pulled myself to the edge, then bellyflopped on the sidewalk surrounding the pool. I remember someone asking, “Hey Jon,
did you need some help there?” and replying, “No, I was drowning on my own
pretty well.”
That
incident played back in my brain any time the thought of learning how to swim came
remotely close to my consciousness.
Then
one day a few months prior to our trip, my dear older sister found out that we
were planning a trip to Florida.
She assumed that somewhere along the line, I’d learned how to swim, and
she brought that up. I informed
her that I planned to sit on the beach building sand castles while the girls
played with the fishies.
She
would have none of that nonsense.
I should go to the Y and learn how to swim according to her.
This
is the same sister who, when I was much younger, tried to convince me to play
in traffic, stick knives in toasters, and put my tongue against frozen poles
during the winter. Now she was
suggesting I take swimming lessons at age 42.
Then
she told me that she was taking lessons.
Well
that settled it. There was no way
my sister was going to learn how to swim before me! I signed up for classes.
The
classes were to be held at some un-Godly hour like 8AM. That was during my days (or in this
case, nights) as a pizza delivery guy, and I got home around 2AM, so the deal
was almost pulled off the table as soon as it was put on. Getting out of a nice warm bed to go
out in the winter air, drive to Galesburg, and jump in a frigid pool was not my
idea of a good time. Still, I
couldn’t let my sister beat me.
Sarah
Brown was our instructor. Fate had
put both my sister and me in the same class. Sis had already been through one or two sessions of lessons
and was almost to the point of being able to float. I told Sarah that I might be able to float if I was holding
a whole bunch of helium balloons.
Sarah
took her time with me, helped build my confidence, and before long, I could
actually float on my back. She
taught me how to do “Chicken, airplane, jet,” which are arm movements to help
propel you once you get that floating thing down. Before long, I was not only floating, I was moving in the
water. Within weeks, I could go
the entire length of the pool!
The
hardest part of it all was making the decision to go. The second hardest was scraping ice off my windshield in order
to go to swimming lessons.
Once
I put my mind to it, everything else seemed easy. I may have looked ridiculous, arms and legs flopping and
flailing, soaking the entire poolside area, but by God, I learned how to swim. I wasn’t going to set any Olympic
records (unless they keep track of how slow and uncoordinated someone is), but
I could swim in the deep end without the lifeguards earning their pay.
When
we got to Florida, I was ready.
I’d demonstrated my new found prowess in the water to my fiancé and
kids, and I was chompin’ at the bit to head for the
big bad ocean. I was gonna swim!
I’m
not sure what went wrong.
We
drove a rental car from Orlando to Daytona Beach, and parked in an area just
off the beach. I noticed that
there was a sign that told what time high tide was expected, but paid little
attention to it.
When
we got to the water, my family led me in.
The waves crashed against my tummy and I shook with anticipation. They let go and I immediate jumped
backward, toward the water, my arms doing the chicken, airplane, jet thing as
fast as I could. I figured I’d be
landing on the west coast of Europe in a couple hours.
It
didn’t take long to realize that I wasn’t swimming. I was making sand angels on the beach. Someone stole the water. It had been there a few seconds ago
when I jumped. It was even there
when I landed because I remember the splash. I couldn’t figure out what happened to it.
When
I opened my eyes, I found the water.
It was coming right at me from straight overhead. I think that’s what they call “a wave.”
I
barely had time to close my eyes and hold my breath. Of course, that did absolutely no good whatsoever because
when the wave hit me, it crashed down on my stomach first, making me open my
eyes and say, “OH…..”
And
that’s when I got my first “taste” of salt water. Everyone had told me that salt water is much easier to both
swim and float in, but I think they forgot to mention that it tastes horrible. I’m sure I would have remembered that
part.
I
got my wits about me and started doing the chicken, airplane, jet thing again,
only to find that I was once again making sand angels. I knew where this was headed, so I
elected to get the heck out of there, doing a sit-up on the sand.
It
was just about that same moment that the second wave hit me. It didn’t do quite as much damage as
the first one, but this time, I got to find out what sand tasted like since I
was now face down on the beach.
Leaving,
quickly, seemed like the best option available to me.
Little
did I know that I was providing entertainment, not only for my own family (who
were all just rolling in the sand with tears streaming down their cheeks), but
for everyone else around as well.
I keep watching America’s Funniest Home Videos just in case I popped up
on there.
The
rest of the afternoon was spent wading in the ocean, getting bit by little
fish, stepping on sharp sea shells, and being charbroiled by the sun. As a souvenir, I decided to take
half of the beach home with me, hidden in the creases of my swim trunks (I had
sand in my underwear for the next month).
When
we headed back to the car, I found out why they put up those little signs with
the time of high tide on them.
That’s because if you park in that area, you should make sure your car
is moved by the time on the sign.
Otherwise, your car is going to be in the ocean.
We
had fifteen minutes to go before the time listed on the sign. I took off in a gallop when I saw the
car. The ocean was about ten feet
from the back bumper. Of course,
there were no other cars around our rental. Everyone else knew what the little signs meant.
I
managed to back the car out of the space and head for higher ground without too
much problem. I wasn’t sure if I
could drive through wet sand or not, but only the passenger side of the car had
to do that, so I guess it worked out.
That
was the halfway point of the week’s vacation. We spent the rest of the trip nursing our sunburns and
having breakfast with Pooh Bear and supper with Alice in Wonderland.
Even
though I may not have officially swum in the ocean, I can still make my way
from one end of the pool to the other without the lifeguard having to blow
their whistle and ready their little contraption for CPR.
Whenever
I come up against something now that seems impossible, I think back to how a
rock learned how to swim.
Now
if I could just learn how to jump off a diving board….