"See that guy in the next lane?" said E, the best female swimmer in the pool, pointing to someone we hadn't seen before. "Find out where he learned to swim like that. He looks like he has had professional coaching."
"Excuse me," I said to him when he stopped. "Where are you from and where did you learn to swim like that?" "Montreal," he replied. "Actually, I was on the Canadian national swim team." Oh, now we get it. By this time, E had swum up and begun engaging him in "technique talk". Having almost none of my own, I just listened, trying to pretend I knew what they were talking about. This guy was amazing -- not only because he was from Montreal, where the men are so much more charming than your average Calgarian boor, but also because he was such an awesome (I hate that word, how about "humbling") swimmer. If E is impressed, that's a big deal, but being so much younger than I, she didn't have the nerve to interrupt his set and bug him with a bunch of questions.
"Did you swim with Victor Davis?" I asked, noticing his huge shoulders. "Yes and Mark Tewksbury and quite a few of the other greats. Then I became a coach." By this time, I was completely captivated. As he and E swapped techniques, I swam off, trying to impress him with my flip turns. Didn't work.
Just then, the other best swimmer in the pool arrived in his speedo -- the only guy who should be legally permitted to wear one at the Crowfoot Y, although a few others attempt it at their peril and our disgust. B was on a provincial team, so I introduced him to the national guy. It was a bit of a red-letter day for me, basking in the company of such fame and distinction. To top it off, I had even been invited to swim in the fast lane (which I never dare) by another good swimmer because...."I haven't seen you in a long time," he beckoned. "Why are you so late today?" he asked. "I was having sex," I lied. I thought he was going to drown, he was laughing so hard.
I love the pool and my pool buddies. We have a lot of laughs
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