Babies are fed mashed peas. The pea jar is opened, perhaps warmed so that it is warm, but never hot, and then a plastic spoon labeled BPA FREE stirs the pea mush. The baby sees this, the great care taken in preparing this meal. Once the mash is warmed and the spoon has stirred, there’s a small dollop of green pea paste on that spoon. The spoon must now be an airplane, or a train, or a car, or something to make the delivery of this mush fun. The sounds, the swirls, the flight path from jar through air to mouth. The baby sees this, too. The mash comes close, and the pilot teases the baby’s mouth open to insert the sustenance. The baby is willing, if confused, and the mush is placed in the food receptacle. Then, a wait.
The baby sours, his face crinkles as it will throughout his entire life whenever something unsavory graces his lips. The mash is spit, spewed really, out of the baby’s mouth and down his chin. The pilot wipes it up and tries again. Parents, pilots, we are nothing if not steadfast. But the baby is onto something here, not just because he dislikes the taste of mashed peas, because most of us do. No, he’s onto something because there’s nothing savory about liquidy green. Some people drink thick green drinks, filled with algae and seeds and grains that I mispronounce. These people are strange, because most of us, from baby to adolescent to adult to old-timer, we know that natural-ish green liquid is not cool.
My children swim, a lot. They swim every day. There is no exaggeration in that statement. Every single day they swim. From early June until mid or late September, they swim. One day a week they may miss, but on other days they’ll swim at two separate times, therefore making up for the skipped session. They do not have many water toys to play with. There is no water trampoline, those wretched things that people think are fun. There is only a pier, or two, one diving board, and a narrow shallow section where kids can stand, if they wish. My kids do not wish, because standing isn’t swimming and swimming is simply what they do best.
When they swim, it isn’t like when you swim. They swim under the water most of the time, with their eyes open, scanning for things to see. They see fish, lots of them. When other kids put on swim masks or goggles to see the crayfish under those shallow water rocks, my kids just open their eyes wider and snatch the crayfish. They are proficient, which is to under appreciate their proficiency. They swim, with open eyes, from pier to pier, under the piers and around them, behind the boats on buoys and yes, under them, too. They are watery creatures, as fish like as any 11 or 8 year old can ever be.
They also swim with their mouths open. A lot. I notice this sometimes, and I noticed it last night. My daughter and I decided, after the gale winds blew all day, that it was time for a sail. The time was approximately 7 pm. The wind had quieted, but I figured it was still virile enough to push our little boat back and forth across the Bay. We raced to the lake, rigged the boat, and pushed off. Shortly thereafter, I was proven wrong. The wind had died too much, there was no sail to be had. So we limped back to the pier and decided to, instead, swim. My daughter jumped from the boat before it had reached the pier. I followed, and we pulled the boat to the ramp.
We dove from the pier, my daughter intent on showing me all the games she plays with her friends when they swim. The games seem fun, especially for eight year olds. They are just games about jumping into the water, from the pier, diving or cannonball, cannonball or jackknife. Backwards dives that find the diver hiding under the pier before rising for a breath. The games are best played by kids, but I still enjoyed the enthusiasm. I also enjoyed watching my daughter swim with her bright eyes wide open, looking up at me on the pier while she pushed her way under the water. That water, it is so clear. It was clear last night, gin clear, if I drank and new what exactly that meant.
I dove in several times, and immediately reverted back to my childhood self. I wouldn’t say I was drinking that clear water, because I wasn’t. But I wasn’t making efforts to keep that cool water from my mouth, either. What a treat to swim in a lake that had been stirred all day by boats and by wind, and to still feel that the water is so clear, so pure, that it just might want to be sipped.
There are other lakes, most of the other ones, that will encourage the opposite. You’ll be as a child, being served mushed peas, and you’ll swim, sure, but you’ll make darn sure to keep that mixture from your mouth and far away from your open eyes. Come to Geneva, let the water rinse your eyes, and if you get a bit in your mouth, it won’t bother you. Not one bit.