Water Play II

This past weekend, I took Conor and a friend back to Cub Run, the new indoor swimming pool in my neighborhood with its tall twisty water slides. It was a really hot day and, odd as it sounds, it seemed like a good idea to swim indoors in the air-conditioning. (Don’t want to overheat while swimming, you know?)

The place was packed. Lots of people had the same idea for escaping the heat. It was so crowded that the line for the water slides was most of the way down the stairs. It didn’t bother Conor or his friend, but I opted out, choosing, instead, to swim in the big pool (which had a lot less kids) and was considerably quieter.

Something new this time around: a mandatory break for kids sixteen and under. Now, every 45 minutes all kids need to get out of the pool and rest. There was a sign in the locker room explaining the new policy. How shall I say this decorously? The new policy was necessary because of the increased frequency with which fecal matter was being discovered in the pool. (Yeah, well, how do you think I felt when I saw that sign? Was this a swimming pool or a petri dish?) The logic behind this policy was laughable. Presumably, during the fifteen minute break, the little tikes responsible for dropping the Baby Ruth bars into the public pool might think to go to the bathroom somewhere more appropriate!

Okay, moving right along. The lifeguards blew their whistles for the first break and all the kids got out of the pool. I looked up and there was almost no one in line for the slides. My chance, at last! If you recall from my previous story about this place, I went down the really tall slide only one time. It’s an enclosed, opaque tube that whips you around, at high speeds, in the dark, and then unceremoniously dumps you into a shallow plunge pool. A true nightmare for a claustrophobe like me.

So, as I started toward the steps, I figured I’d go down the easier of the two slides, the one where I can actually look around and see where I’m going.

I didn’t get very far before I heard my son’s voice calling to me. “Dad.” I looked down and there he was, standing before me with a towel wrapped around him. “Which one are you going on?” he asked. I told him just what I told you.

“Ah, come on. Why don’t you go down the big one?” he implored.

"Because it freaks me out,” I said. “I’m really not up for it.”

Conor gave me a serious look. “If you don’t go on the big one, I don’t know how you can continue to be the World’s #1 Dad. You’ll be demoted.”

Huh? When did this ten year old of mine learn the fine art of psychological manipulation? Besides, I thought I was in the black when it came to Dad cred. A couple of years ago, I was in New Zealand at the height of the Lord of the Rings craze. At the end of my business trip, I took a tour of the filming locations for the movies. I even sneaked home a fern from the forest around the set of Rivendell. Conor, who is a big fan, was quite impressed. I figured I was good as gold to him for at least a few more years.

As I walked up the stairs to the slides, I turned to my son and said, "I'll decide when I get up there." I started thinking: if heaving myself into a narrow enclosed tube was all I needed to do to impress my son, what the hell, I'd do it. It won't be long before it will take considerably more than that (say, the keys to a new car).

So I went sliding down "the dark tunnel of death." This time I splayed my arms and legs to the sides of the tube, in an attempt to slow myself down. I kept my head up, too. There wasn't much light, but this posture helped to gather what little sensory information there was and send it to my brain. All in all, the ride went much easier this time. And when I came tumbling out the mouth of the tube into the plunge pool, Conor was standing there waiting for me. Except he was looking over at the plunge pool for the wimpy slide. "Hey," I said. "I'm over here." He turned around, surprised to see me there. I smiled, went back up the stairs and slid down the same slide one more time. Not only had I won back my Top Dad ranking, but I had conquered my claustrophobia - at least for the day.

When break was over, the kids all jumped back in and swam around for a good long time until we heard the whistles blowing again. It was way too soon for break. This time the whistles were meant to covey a different message. We watched as the lifeguards stood around pointing at something near the edge of the pool. Something gross, judging from their facial expressions. The head lifeguard was called over. He looked down and grimaced. He conferred with the other lifeguards for a moment and then made this announcement to the crowd: "Pool closed!"