Claire's Swimming Progress

Claire's now in the middle of her second 6-week swimming course. She's making good progress but not quite to the point where we'd be comfortable giving her access to deep water without very close supervision.

It would seem to make little sense that the only swimming she gets is in a swimming class. Where's the concept of home work and practice? So we decided that I should go with her to "Open Plunge" Saturday afternoon. We've done that for two weeks. It now looks like a firmly established tradition.

Open Plunge is a different environment from the classes held in the same pool. The slides, fountains, jets, and lazy river are all in full function -- and the patronage is dense to the point of infestation -- squirming, crawling, splashing, half-naked creatures of all shapes and sizes. You can't do anything without bumping into something living. No one even bothers to say excuse me, otherwise it would be a constant "Excuse me" chatter. And, as always, my job is to stay close to Claire and do everything she asks.

She expressed curiosity about what she could see through double sets of glass doors. Over there was the Olympic-size racing pool. We wandered over. It was empty except for a half-dozen people in one corner and one old man (my age) doing laps in one of the lanes. Quite different from the playground pool. I asked the only official there if "Open Plunge" included this pool. He looked up from his work of repairing and adjusting the lane floats to answer, "Sure."

Claire studied the numbers painted on the edge. "Nine feet!" she exclaimed. "That's deep!"

That was unique. I've never heard my barely 6-year-old granddaughter express shocked discovery and realization before.

"Remember when you were jumping off the diving board," I reminded her. "That was nine feet."

"Oh?" she said. "I didn't know that...." The last sentence trailed off to thoughtful contemplation.

That was even more startlingly unique. When had she ever expressed humble surprise before?

I could almost hear the gears grinding in her little brain. What were we to do with this huge, intimidating place?

She decided that this end was a little too intimidating. The opposite end was clearly the place to start and she took off in that direction. As per rule and tradition, I followed her without being directed to do so.

The other end turned out to be nine feet also. Well, we'd just have to make do with what we had. "You go in first, Grandpa." Obediently I jumped in and she jumped in after me.

After a period of getting used to it and trying all sorts of floats, boards, and even some flippers she dug out of a bin -- the smallest set still too large -- she settled on a float comprised of pipe insulation -- four-foot lengths of 4 inch diameter, flexible cylinders that fit across the chest and under the armpits. They were a variety of bright colors. (I wasn't aware they came in any color but black or dark gray.)

With this, she proceeded to flutter-kick/doggy paddle the entire length of the pool! She seldom lets me in on her intentions and plans, so this was an amazing surprise to me. In the very middle of the pool where the banks all appeared to be impossibly far away, I was sure that she was going to come to her senses and give up. When she made it to the end, I assumed that her appetite for the Olympic racing pool would have also come to an end, and she would now be content to go back to the playground pool. How surprised I was when she turned around and immediately set out to retrace her path back to the original end!

She repeated this several times, stopping once to trade her 4-foot section for a 2-foot section. That concerned me because it didn't seem substantial and secure enough, but she was overjoyed with the greater maneuverability and seemed more than satisfied with the result. The only other time she paused was to tell me, "Let's rest. I'll show you how we rest here." I followed her lead as we got out of the pool, sat on the bank with our feet in the water, and kicked vigorously for 5 seconds. Then back in the pool.

Once she actually did lose her float. At that point, she demonstrated that she can tread water! That demonstration lasted one full second before I could grab her.

Meanwhile, I was pacing her with a half water-tread and side stroke. It was not the most efficient or relaxing way of getting through water. Whenever I settled into a full, relaxed, gliding side stroke, she would say, "Grandpa! Don't try to pass me!" She insisted that she be the one to win every lap. She even had me move to the next lane so that we could be fellow competitors. The result was that I was getting tired. The single 5-second bank flutter hadn't done it for me.

"Are you sure we want to go again," I asked as we made it to the end of a lap. "I'm tired!" She looked at me with disdain and took off.

This only ended when she said, "I have to go potty!" She jumped out of the water and added, "I have to go potty bad!" I have studiously avoided letting her in on the dirty little secret.

One serious problem I have with all this is that Claire pops in and out of the water at will and with rapidity. As a boy scout I learned how to quickly and easily get in and out of deep water, (Claire has never needed such instruction) but my lack of shoulder rotator cuffs makes this technique impossible, so my efforts to get out of a deep pool -- or even a shallow pool -- is similar to a walrus ooze-flopping onto the beach. And I have to do it quickly, because Claire moves quickly. She has learned to walk/run just fast enough to avoid a shrill whistle and rebuke from an official. To keep up with her is also a bit of a stretch for me to avoid the same whistle/rebuke.

We completed our open plunge in the playground pool after which I finally succeeded in my many attempts to convince her that she'd had enough and wanted to go home.

The whole was a three-hour stint.

America's Choice

I walked into the Bountiful Temple and noted that only one of the two recommend stations was manned. A bit of a line was forming. In front of me was a lovely, tall young woman.

An ordinance worker walked up to the unmanned station and began fiddling with the computer. The young woman moved over beside him presumably to split the growing line into two, but from the computer machinations, it appeared that it would be some time before the station was ready to scan recommends. I motioned to her to resume her place in front of me where she would be next in line.

She held her ground and said, "I'm being taken care of." She smiled. She seemed to smile easily.

My recommend was scanned and handed back to me. Before continuing into the temple, I turned and stared directly at her from the front. She returned the favor with obvious amusement.

"You're Miss Utah!" I said. I hope I didn't point at her, but I'm afraid I probably did. Bad form.

She appeared startled and I assumed that I was mistaken though the resemblance was uncanny.

"I am!" she exclaimed. "I was," she corrected. Then she flashed a dazzling, completely unmistakable smile. "Thank you," she said.

"Hard to miss," I muttered as I turned and continued into the temple.

It's no surprise that I couldn't remember her name, but I wished that I had muttered something like "People's Choice" (actually, should have been "America's Choice") to cement the identity.

A contemplative temple meditation session was out. I hurried home to get onto blogger and clear my brain of Jill Stevens. Yes I remembered her name -- significantly during the endowment.