The clashing of tusks

It seemed to start with a bit of a shove and a brusque comment. Then, suddenly, it was like watching a pair of scrawny old walruses, each trying to prove they still had their tusks – and were willing to use them. Within seconds, the two of them were pushing and shoving at each other, sweeping armfuls of water into one another’s faces, nose to nose, voices raised.

Of all the places to encounter a testosterone-fuelled situation, the deep end of the 50m indoor pool was not where I’d expect it. From the sidelines it was clearly more than bluster. There was real heat in the exchange. Comments shot back and forth about appropriate lane use, about tapping someone on the head while they’re swimming (!), about stroke-speed – or the lack thereof – and, oddly enough, about ‘common courtesy’. It was bizarre – and yet neither of them seemed willing to back down or even be aware of the growing audience.

“This is a swimming lane – not a walking lane!” yelled one. “Well you shouldn’t be swimming so fast!” was the swift rejoinder – and on it went, with the lifeguard on duty apparently (incredibly) oblivious. Perhaps, like me, she was simply conflict averse, finding the whole situation acutely uncomfortable. Perhaps the walruses are usually perfectly pleasant people – most of the time – and she was giving them time to sort it out.

I watched on, well ready for my swim – fins and mask in hand, cap on – but decidedly hesitant about actually getting into the pool. There was no way I was going to run the gauntlet of a pair of grumpy old men having a go at each other just so that I could cut across them to a free lane.

After a bit more of the “Did – didn’t – dirty rotten stinker” routine, one of the codgers had finally had enough. He ‘flipped the bird’ at the other and simply swam off, leaving the argument behind. After a brief pause to gather himself, codger #2 performed a very disgruntled flounce out of the water and stomped off to the other side of the pool – where there was, in fact, a designated exercise/walking lane. At least neither of them had a heart attack in the process!

The feeling of relief once it was all over was immense. I could feel my shoulders gradually relaxing, the knot in my stomach easing. Ducking under the lane rope and starting to move through the water felt like a gift. Even so, it still took a couple of hundred metres of freestyle for me to get the dramatics – and my reaction to it – out of my headspace.

In that process I realised that what bothered me the most was that it was a pair of grandads who’d got their knickers in a twist and squared off against each other in a public space. Somehow that felt more awkward than your average people-behaving-badly situation. My internal world includes a grandad who was gruff but kind, reserved and laconically Scots – often amusingly so. There is no possibility that he would have indulged in these sorts of shenanigans; like me, he’d have been quietly appalled.

For the rest of my swim I thought about my grandad, how he’d talked to me about poetry and introduced me to Longfellow. All I could remember from The Song of Hiawatha was “By the shore of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water...” – but it was enough. I’d found my zone.

Thanks Grandpa. It’s been a while, but I’ll read it the epic poem again sometime soon and think of you.