AQUAYAKKING IN SANDYCOVE

I have been called some interesting things in my life and I’m not too sure that the latest appellation is one that I appreciate – The Plunger.  Hmmm, you ask, how in the hell did you come by that one?  

Hmmm, I reply, "I started taking Aquafit (also known as Aquayak, no explanation needed) a couple of months ago.  Three days a week from 11:00 in the a.m. to noon, I get my luscious body into the pool and exercise the crap out of it.  Not many of our group (numbering around 20) really pay much attention to start and stop times.  Most of us arrive at the south pool early, around 10:30.  It’s first come, first served when it comes to who gets to participate and max capacity in our little pool is 23.  And, no, it doesn’t matter what the weather is, as long as there’s no snow falling or lightning striking, we go."

It has been a weird kind of summer, in this year of our Lord, 2015.  My kind of summer actually, usually decent temps hovering around the 70° f mark, with little or no humidity.  I’m sure you’ve said it yourself – it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity, which kills me.  I just can’t stand it.  The minute I go outside and it’s humid, I start dripping, usually starting in my nice, thick hair and continuing southbound.  If it gets up to 90°, that’s okay, just as long as it’s not humid. 

But how often does humidity-less days happen?   Especially up here in the Town Above, since most of our county is on the banks of the fourth largest lake, wholly within the province of Ontario.  Somehow Mother Nature skipped the humidity in our weather forecast this summer and most days it’s just lovely.  I can honestly say it’s one of the nicest summers I’ve ever had.

With the good, comes the not-so-good though.  Without the humidity, it’s harder to appreciate getting into a pool (with a wonky heater) three mornings a week.  It’s even harder getting out, considering the brisk breeze, which turns on the headlights on all the women. 

One sullen mid-July morning, it seemed that the snow clause almost came into effect, when I dragged my reluctant self out of bed and, shivering, stumbled to the window to close it against the chill.  Hmmm, the brain started ticking over the question, Aquayak or no Aquayak?

After closing the bedroom window and thinking about turning on the gas fireplace in the living room, I made it to the back bedroom to check the outside thermometer.  That day it was a bone-chilling 63° (which translates to a measly 17° celsius) and it was windy.  I’m surprised that there was no wind-chill warning that morning.  Oh, and then there was the problem from the day before, something about a pump not working, which had kept the pool closed for the whole day. 

                                             

Standing by the patio door, mesmerized by the thermometer, hovering around 60°, I decided that skipping Aquayak that day was the better part of being smart. It was a bone-chilling thought to immerse myself in a supposedly heated pool under a dark, dour, sky, with a wind chill factor (at least in my mind there was one) and perhaps normal in November but totally out of place in mid-July.  

                                      (not really this cold but it sure felt like it some mornings!)

One day, it was over 80° f (27° c) in the pool, but that was rare.  Most times it hovered around 70°f to maybe 75° and our outspoken aquatics leader, Monique, a pioneer originally from Cape Breton a handful of decades or so ago, sometimes ended up directing her stalwart pod from a standing position on the side of the pool.   Others dipped a toe or maybe even a whole foot, shivered, said their hellos and goodbyes and left.  Most of our group are in the over 65 age range and experience a number of health challenges already, and they don’t want to add to them by willingly exposing themselves to pneumonia!

Which brings me back to my newest nickname, The Plunger.  The first time, Donna (names have been disguised to protect the not-so-innocent), called me The Plunger, I have to say that I was startled, as I immediately envisioned that thick, brownish, rubber thingie used to unplug stopped-up toilets.  I still have that image stuck in my brain. 

I did earn that nickname honestly though.  Because the pool heater has been wonky all summer, the only constant about the temperature has been asking, upon arrival at the pool, what temperature the pool was.  The cluster of women on the weathered, wooden deck, tightly wrapped in gay beach towels or thick, woolly, white, terry robes, usually tipped me off before anyone answered.  Even on a cool day, if the pool was a decent temperature, the early birds would go in just to keep warm.  Clumped on the deck in a somewhat sheltered corner and sitting close to each other told me immediately that I was not going to be tiptoeing into that pool. 

So instead of walking in via the stairs and getting stuck behind someone who was taking a long time to reach bottom, I started jumping into the deep end, which, if the 12” high numbers painted in black on the pool’s edge are to be believed, is 6’ (2 meters(ish).  I just get it over with in one fell swoop.  Hence, taking the plunge, or as Donna coined it, also known as The Plunger. 

One day, my nickname may have to change to The Cannonball, which is what I keep threatening to do.  I just have to manage to wrap my arms around my lower legs and jump, all at the same time.  A cinch to do when you’re a slim 13 year old, not so much at a chubby 60ish.  Maybe I’ll practice in our local indoor pool over the winter and surprise everyone next summer.

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