Summertime Swimming Hole

The Boy wanted to go fishing the other day; unfortunately I couldn’t. I had to go to work.

He asked me if he could use my fishing stuff. Being the wonderful dad that I am, I said, “Sure. But you’re not gonna catch anything. It’s too hot. Fish won’t bite when it’s hot.”

I had to give him advice. That’s what dads do best. Unfortunately, he doesn’t listen too well. That’s what teenagers do best.

The Boy shook his head and mumbled something on his way down to the basement. I think it was, “Gee, thanks, Dad. And thanks for the good advice over the years.” At least that’s what I thought he said.

Ten minutes later he bounded back upstairs with what looked like every tackle box, rod, reel, bobber and lure that I had. “Son, you’re not gonna catch anything. It’s almost noon and 90 degrees. Now what you ought to do is find a swimming hole.” My comment stopped him dead in his tracks.

With a wary look on his face he slowly set down the fishing gear and whined, “Dad, you’re not going tell me another story, are you?” Already knowing the answer, he walked over to the refrigerator, retrieved a Dr. Pepper, pulled out a kitchen chair, and sat down. I started my story.

Cripple Creek stretched behind Neighbor Thomas’s house, our house, and all the houses on the right side of Flamingo Street. It meandered lazily all the way down to the cud-de-sac, where it bent around Old Miss Crabtree’s place before the current dawdled into the swamp on the other side. The wide bend behind Miss Crabtree’s house formed the Artic Plunge, the best swimming hole in three counties.

The clear water of Cripple Creek turned to blue as it took the turn into the bend. Bubba Hank said the change in color was because it was so deep. Goofy Steve said he thought someone had dumped a truck load of Kool-Aid into the creek.

I, of course knew the real reason. The Artic Plunge of Cripple Creek was blue simply because it was cold as ice.

On a hot summer day, anyone who jumped into the Artic Plunge also turned blue. The change wasn’t instant; it did take about an hour or so of diving, flipping, cannon balls, and being thrown in, but it happen nonetheless.

Everyone who played down at the swimming hole during the summer turned blue — everyone except Twin Brother Mark. He turned an angry shade of red. Afterwards, he took a trip to see Doc Jim.

The day Mark turned red it was 96 degrees. Waves of heat rolled off the newly paved asphalt on Flamingo Street. Bubba Hanks had just finished frying an egg on the pavement in front of our house when Neighbor Thomas walked up carrying a utility rope. “Guys, I got a great idea. Let’s make a rope swing down at the swimming hole!”

We spent the rest of the afternoon fighting about who would do the climbing. We all agreed that Bubba wasn’t made for climbing. Thomas already had a broken arm from the giant tractor tire ride. Goofy Steve was our best dodge ball player and we couldn’t afford for him to get hurt. Older Brother Richard and Big Brother James were still on restriction and couldn’t go to the Artic Plunge. Bugger, Ski, and Preston Weston were still on vacation.

That left me and Mark, and I wasn’t about to climb. But I did have a quarter in my pocket. Back then, Mark would do just about anything for a quarter. Even climb a tree to hang a rope swing. A tree covered in ivy — poison ivy.

At 12:05 The Boy left for the small lake just up from our house, and I left for work. At 12:30 my cell phone rang. When I answered, on the other end was The Boy very excited, “Dad, so I’m not gonna catch anything? What about a 20-inch catfish!”

Disbelieving I said, “That’s great, save it for me. I’ll be back in about two hours.” Returning home that afternoon, The Boy proudly showed off the huge, still alive, catfish. He had retrieved my best cooler from the basement, filled it full of creek water and sand before adding one giant catfish.

“See Dad, I told you I could catch fish. Guess it wasn’t too hot after all?”

For the next 20 minutes I listened to just how dumb I was and just how smart he was. Finally, I just smiled, went down to the basement, and retrieved the one item I needed to set the world back in order.

“Here,” I said as I handed him the long utility rope. “When you return Moby Dick to the creek, there’s a giant oak tree near the bank. If you climb up and tie this to the big limb reaching out over the water, you can have a rope swing.”

After five more minutes of bragging on the giant fish, The Boy loaded the rope, cooler, and Moby Dick in the back of his pickup. I walked over and gave him five dollars. The Boy will do just about anything for five dollars.

Before he drove off I said, “Here’s some money for a sweet tea after you hang the rope. Make sure you get the right oak tree. It’s the one covered all in ivy.”