WATER

Right now, I’m sitting at “my place” on Up Jinks.  It’s at the end of the salon table right next to the entry into the bow berth.  I’ve been here so much that my butt cheeks are indelibly imprinted in the seat cushion – an impression that seems to be growing a little larger the more I sit.  Every now and then, I try to slide slightly to the right, but inevitably I fall back into “my place” as if rolling to the center of a well-worn bed. 

This is the spot where I read, write, knit, work my crossword puzzles, eat and cogitate.  Every now and then, I’ll look up from these pursuits to gaze at my surroundings (which takes about five seconds) in wonderment that I am here.  After all, I was never a likely candidate to live on a sailboat.  “Why?” you ask.  Water, that’s why.  Yes, the very stuff on which I now live has rarely been a source of comfort to me.  Water and I have always had a very shaky relationship.

When I look back on my life, it’s pretty easy to understand why this is so.  Some of my most uncomfortable and embarrassing moments occurred because of water.  For one thing, I’ve always had a tendency to motion sickness.  This was particularly true out in the ocean where “Chum” became my nickname on every deep sea excursion – not to be confused with “pal” or “friend.”  More insidiously, though, water usually requires wearing a bathing suit.  I don’t know about other women, but bathing suits are the bane of my existence.  Usually, the most expensive are two skimpy swatches of cloth designed to hide nothing.  The ones designed to hide everything may give you more material for your money, but resemble a miniature tent.  There’s one thing I know for sure.  Bathing suits were no friend to this insecure adolescent girl whose top half decided to play the tortoise in her body’s development race. 

Oh, how I hated to shop for a bathing suit.  My legs were not long and willowy.  I inherited them from my dad as did both of my brothers.  We called them “Schaefer legs” and they consisted of large calves and healthy thighs.  Finding a flattering bathing suit was almost impossible.  I grew up in that ghastly age of one piece bathing suits with the panel across the front. The panel always made my legs look like two sturdy tree stumps coming down from my torso.  Top it off with the required accessory of a bathing cap and I looked like a “peahead.”  Finally, somebody who must have hated bathing suits as much as I did started designing them.  That’s when skirts and little boy legs became popular.  To this day, that’s what I wear.

When I was in the first grade, we moved to 3 Lakecrest Drive in Stone Lake Heights on the northwest side of Greenville, SC.  Sometime around my junior high years, the neighborhood organized to build a community pool with two tennis courts.  This was pretty novel for those days and my dad agreed to do some legal work on the project in exchange for a family membership.  The pool facility was definitely the magnet during the summer.  It had a bath house and a baby pool, was wide enough to accommodate four competitive lanes, had a two-tiered diving board and most importantly – there were lifeguards!

All of these whistle-swinging, sunglass-wearing, “YOU –Out of the pool!” hunks of flesh have disappeared from my memory except for one – Bill Chastain.  It was the summer before my junior year in high school.  Until then, the “community pool” had been a pleasant place for me to spend some time in the summer, but nothing obsessive.  I really used the tennis courts more often.  At least in tennis, you could wear a pretty outfit or some shorts.  But, that summer, I found myself marching up to the pool religiously every afternoon, staying until it closed. 

Don’t get me wrong.  There was absolutely nothing going on between me and Bill Chastain – at least not from his perspective.  He was a lot older than I, a rising senior at Furman University who had taken my dad’s Business Law course the year before.  He was on the football team and a member of Kappa Alpha fraternity.  He had a girlfriend, too.  Her name was Diane Thompson.  Of course, she was a beauty queen.  Somehow, none of this deterred all of the younger girls in our neighborhood from lollygagging around the pool everyday – giggling in bunches at the bottom of the lifeguard stand, diving in the pool, splashing around, assuming provocative sunbathing positions on beach towels.

I was in those legions.  So much so that by the end of July, I had actually become allergic to the chlorine in the pool.  All I had to do was dive into the water and I would break out in huge red whelps all over my body.  They itched terribly and looked horrid.  Only after I’d come home to wash off in the tub would they subside.   However, an allergy is no match for infatuation.  Nothing could keep me from going to the pool. The remainder of the summer, I would have to just sit on my towel, pose prettily and swelter in the heat while everyone else frolicked in the pool.  The water looked cool and inviting, but every time I’d dare to get in, my skin erupted in the embarrassing bumps.  Thank heaven, the summer finally ended and the pool closed on Labor Day.  Thereafter, my adoration for Bill Chastain was relegated to the bleachers at Sirrine Stadium as I watched him play football.  He was probably oblivious to my pain and suffering on his behalf.  The whole episode marked me for life.  I would never forgive the water for making me so unattractive at a time when I wanted so desperately to be otherwise.

Almost three years later, I was myself a freshman at Furman.  In the 50’s, the campus had been moved from downtown Greenville to a beautiful, remote site some fifteen miles towards Travelers Rest under the shadow of Paris Mountain.  It was now 1966 and the school was still very much in transition.  There were classroom buildings, a dining hall, dorms, a library and an auditorium.  But, many of the facilities were either temporary structures or still on the drawing board.  This was particularly true for the P.E. Department. 

Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, I would wait outside the women’s dorm with several other girls for a bus to take us to the YWCA in downtown Greenville for our synchronized swimming class.   Given what I’ve already told you, I’m sure you’re wondering how I EVER decided to take synchronized swimming?   Well, as always, there’s a story.

One of my grandmother’s best friends was a woman named Dr. Ruth Reid.  I knew Dr. Reid pleasantly enough growing up.  She went to our church, First Baptist, and would come over some Sundays after church to have lunch with “Nonnie.”  Dr. Reid was on the faculty at Furman in the P.E. Department.  Throughout my high school years, I was totally unaware that Dr. Reid had set her sights on me as a prime target for a P.E. major.  Actually she, with the complicity of my grandmother, had planned my entire academic career even into post graduate work.  All of this was done before I even decided to go to Furman.

From the time I could walk, I danced.  My mother enrolled me in LaBruce Heist’s School of Dance when I was three.  I took tap, ballet, jazz and acrobatics – all in the same hour.  The recitals were held at Greenville High School and, at the age of five, I was in four numbers.  That night was one of my first mortifying memories.  The dancers in each number were assigned different classrooms to dress and assemble.  They would then hold hands and walk in a line to the stage.  This meant I had to go to four different rooms during the course of the night.  I’d come off the stage, mother would meet me in the wings and take me to my next room.  The fourth time, she was helping me into my costume when we both realized it was different from everybody else’s.  I totally freaked out.  Mother rushed to find Mrs. Heist to tell her and perhaps persuade her to let me forego the routine.  Mrs. Heist told her to put me at the back of the line.  Everything would be okay.

Hand in hand, all the little dancers trooped up the hall to the stage door.  When it was our turn, we entered backstage.  Mrs. Heist took me forward one wing, walked away, and cued the music.  As the curtain opened, a roar of tapping noises rose up behind me.  I followed suit with the prescribed shuffle steps to the left.  From the opposite wing came a little boy shuffling to the right.  We locked arms and proceeded to dance together.  I had never seen him before, nor have I since.  At the end of the number, I broke loose and shuffled back right off the stage.  He disappeared to the left.  I guess Mrs. Heist was scared that I would balk if I knew ahead of time I was going to be in front.  Mother was actually the one who balked.  The next fall, I was enrolled in Doris McClellan’s School of Ballet. 

For the next twelve years, first grade through my graduation from high school, ballet was my passion.  I achieved relative accomplishment and became a soloist with the Greenville Civic Ballet.  It was during this time that Dr. Reid spotted me.  By the time I matriculated as a freshman at Furman, she had convinced herself that my dance training would be a natural tie in to such pursuits as gymnastics and synchronized swimming – otherwise known as “water ballet.”  My candidacy as a P.E. major was so logical to her that she became pretty irritated when I didn’t respond.  Because of the academic requirements at Furman, I was obligated to take P.E. for my first two years.  Dr. Reid was in charge of my course selections.  Thus, I found myself on that bus two days a week going into town for synchronized swimming.               

By almost drowning, I learned pretty quickly that the only thing ballet and “water ballet” have in common is music.  Where one uses the legs for strength, the other uses the arms.  In ballet, a pose is finished with graceful fingers extended.  In “water ballet,” a beautifully arched foot may be the only thing visible above the water.  I did have good arches, but that was about all. 

Every combination was a struggle.  I never could get the “walkover” without touching the bottom of the pool.  If I had to execute one in the deep end, I’d just sink out of sight.  I can’t remember what things were called, but my most dreaded move required me to lie flat on my back, holding myself on top of the water by frantically moving my arms back and forth underneath, then tucking my knees up to my chest and extending one leg straight up with my toes pointed.  Once in that position, I was to lower myself under the water until my foot was the only thing above, turn 180-degrees, and raise myself back up to the surface, lower my leg and stretch out again.  The first half of the combination wasn’t too bad.  But, trying to bring myself back up was like pushing a tank up a hill.  Invariably, I’d have to forego the pose and come out of the water spewing and gasping for breath like a whale.

That year, for some reason, Furman was hosting the Southeast Regional Synchronized Swimming Symposium.  I had never been aware that Furman even offered the course, much less to the proficiency of hosting a symposium.  Our assignment was to pair up, select music, and choreograph a routine.  Then came the bombshell.  We learned that we would be swimming in front of judges in competition with several other schools.   

There was one other freshman in the group named Marilyn Marchman.  She and I decided to work together.  We went to my house at 3 Lakecrest one afternoon to listen to music.  Finally, we selected a piece that would work.  It was light and airy with sort of a circus atmosphere about it.  Over the course of the semester, we practiced as much as we could and finally finished the choreography.  Dr. Reid stressed to us the points on which we would be judged.  It was like the Olympics with marks for technical merit followed by artistic impression.  She suggested that we might be able to make up for our lack of skill with creativity. 

The thought wasn’t lost on us.  Marilyn and I decided that we would interpret our music as trapeze artists.  We deliberated about how we could “jazz” up the horrible black tank suits and bathing caps we had to wear.  Mother offered to make us a couple of red capes to wear for our entrance.  Then, she said, “Maybe some red tights would look good.”  Marilyn and I thought this was a very clever idea. 

The opening day of the symposium finally came.  The girls in my class boarded the bus for the “Y” with all of the enthusiasm of a group of convicts on their way to the electric chair.  Marilyn and I sat together.  Mother had come out to the campus the night before with our capes and tights.  We were as ready as we could be.

As the bus pulled into the parking lot, Dr. Reid met us.  She was all atwitter with the excitement of being in charge of such a momentous occasion.  We assembled around her to get the order of the program and our final instructions.  Then she announced, “Oh, and we have been guaranteed at least one place for the public performance tomorrow afternoon.  So, be aware that the judges will be making that selection today.” 

No matter how old I am, I’ll never forget that day - the chlorine smell of the indoor pool; the sight of the judges seated in the balcony above it; the solid bodies of disciplined swimmers; the precision of the accomplished teams; and my dive into the brink!

Marilyn and I found ourselves sandwiched between the nationally first-ranked team from the University of Florida and the nationally second-ranked team from Florida State.  I’m not sure whether Dr. Reid was responsible for that.  If so, I could never forgive her.

Our music started with great fanfare.  Marilyn and I came confidently out of the locker room door, bowed to the audience as trapeze artists do, and took our positions at the edge of the pool.  On cue, we dramatically dropped the capes and dove into the pool.  For the next four minutes, it was a matter of survival.  We had never rehearsed our routine in costume.  Therefore, we didn’t know that the minute we hit the water, the tights would stretch about a foot.  Every kick had what seemed like fifty pounds of dead weight on it.  It was all we could do to stay on top of the water, much less hold poses.  And, forget the beautifully arched point of the toe.  On “walkovers,” we’d point our toes and a foot of cloth would fling over afterward. 

It was absolutely the most embarrassing moment of my life.  The judges were very stalwart and kept their composure.  Everybody else who was watching must have been rolling on the floor.  FINALLY, the music came to a compassionate end.  Marilyn and I swam to the ladder, heaved ourselves up the steps, and slopped our way back into the locker room kicking the swollen tights ahead so as not to trip on them. 

As if the humiliation of the event itself were not enough, we still had to endure the “critique” from the judges.  All of the swimmers in our section of the competition assembled in a room to hear the judges’ comments.  Dr. Reid announced who they were along with their credentials.  The local dogcatcher could have adequately judged our routine.  “You were absolutely majestic,” the first judge began her remarks about us, “until you dove in the water.”  I don’t remember anything else she said, or any of the others, because it really didn’t matter to me.  I was only there because Dr. Reid insisted that I take the class.  Maybe she finally realized that I wasn’t such a prize catch after all. 

I am convinced that these episodes had a direct impact on my long-term feelings toward water.  Why wouldn’t they?  Water was the prop in two of the most awkward scenes of my life.  Yes, hardly anyone would figure me a good candidate for life on a sailboat.  But, I’m here on Up Jinks, happy as a clam, looking forward to our next trip.  Make no mistake, though.  My feelings for the water will never be warm and fuzzy – thanks to Bill Chastain and Ruth Reid.