This past Sunday’s high of nearly 80 degrees in my birth city of Lincoln, Neb. forced thoughts of summer.
And summer means swimming!
I learned to swim during the summer of 1970. The Red Cross offered free swimming lessons at the Seward, Neb. pool, which was located 25 miles to the southwest of the farm in which I was raised. Raymond Central provided bus service from Valparaiso to Seward. The bus then took us back to Valparaiso after lessons.
I learned to swim in short order and only took lessons for two summers.
One of my instructors was a woman in her forties who smoked cigarettes.
During one lesson, she made me swim with her from the shore to the center of the pool and back. During the entire aqua journey, she swam beside me with her head above water and a cigarette in her mouth. She still managed to bark orders despite having a cancer-stick wedged between her lips.
While the lessons were free, I had to pay 25 cents admission to the pool. However, I soon discovered that the kids who had season passes simply shouted out a number when they walked through the gate. I thought that looked like an easy way to get into the pool for free, so I tried it. It worked! Mom still gave me my quarter every day for admission, but I spent it on two cent Tootsie Rolls and five-cent Milk Duds or Slo Pokes, which resulted in a candy-feast on the bus ride back to Valparaiso. Mom picked me up and usually had me home by noon, just in time for lunch. Despite my candy-feast, I would eat something. I didn’t dare tell Mom about my ill-gotten candy. After lunch, I would practice my swimming skills in the cattle tank, which basically amounted to putting my face in the water and blowing bubbles or practice kicking my feet.
The Seward pool was unique. It was a perfect circle with a zero-depth entry. If I wanted to jump off the diving platforms, I had to swim to the middle of the pool and climb a ladder that was situated in about five feet of water. There were four platforms that were about 2, 8, 15, and 22 feet above the water. I only went off the top platform once or twice, but I jumped off the third platform on several occasions. The second, third, and fourth platforms all faced north, allowing me to jump into a 16-foot diving well in the center of the circle pool. The first platform faced east, and I jumped into water that was only five feet deep.
Without a doubt, the platform tower was a dangerous situation that was corrected several years later. When I was ready to jump off the third platform, I had to yell, “Hold it above and below.” Or if I jumped off the second level, I yelled, “Hold it above.” And I had to yell, “Hold it below” when I jumped off the top deck. On occasion, someone forgot to hold it, and swimmers crashed into the water together. Usually, the simultaneous jumps resulted in a lifeguard blowing his whistle and yelling at us to be more careful.
Like most swimming pools of the 1960s and 1970s, sunlight and the warm air heated the Seward pool’s water. Heated pools rarely existed, and the water was somewhat chilly until July.
But cold water was why I went swimming—to beat the heat.
My two daughters learned to swim at the old Alliance and Hemingford pools and Box Butte Reservoir.
I will always be grateful to the young men and women who have worn the red lifeguard swimming suits that afforded them that skill.
While knowing how to swim offers a lifetime of enjoyable recreation and one of the best exercises known to humankind, it also adds another important resume to our life skills: if one falls in the water, it lessens one’s chances of drowning.