The day after I graduated from Harvard, everyone but my grandparents abandoned me. My sister was in Paris, my father and my stepfather had flown home the evening of my graduation (they had inadvertently shared a flight—and a row), my girlfriend had left on a morning train to Philadelphia, and my mother had headed to Logan Airport at lunchtime.

I had lined up a summer internship as a reporter with the Detroit Free Press, and I was going to stop for the night at my grandparents’ house in Canton, Ohio, before driving the final three hours to Detroit. But before loading a senior year’s worth of books, clothes, and mementos into my car, I needed one final swim in Blodgett Pool. My grandparents had arrived in my dorm room to oversee my packing, but I told them I wasn’t ready to start yet. “I need to take care of something,” I said. “It’ll take half an hour. I’ll be right back.”

I had never gone swimming for only half an hour. The bike ride alone to Blodgett Pool was half an hour round trip. But I was afraid that if I told my grandparents what I planned to do, and how much time it would take, they would balk. I needed my swim! To avoid objections, I departed swiftly, leaping on my bike and pedaling off.

When I returned two hours later, my car was packed. My grandfather, who was seventy-five years old, had moved everything I owned, including my 50-pound barbell. Despite my apologies, my grandmother had harsh words for me. “Where were you?” she asked.

I explained—no, I lied—about meeting up with a friend, meeting his parents, his grandparents, his girlfriend, his Chihuahua.

“Why do you smell like chlorine?” she asked.

Guilty!

 

At Blodgett Pool, I occasionally shared a lane with Bill Walton, the NBA player who, at six-feet, eleven-inches, appeared gigantic even when he was dog-paddling. He was conspicuous, too, for his curly red hair. Walton didn’t swim much, however. He mostly ran, in special black aquatic boots, in an effort to rehabilitate his injured ankles. The wake he created felt like the waves at Waikiki. Walton was healthy enough to participate in the NBA playoffs during my junior year—the Celtics, for whom he played backup center, lost to the Lakers in the finals—but he subsequently had both his ankles surgically fused.

If Walton was a recognizable presence at Blodgett Pool, there was an anonymous presence who wanted to make my acquaintance. One morning, I found a note in my locker. Picking it up, I thought, irrationally and hopefully, that it must be from the cute lifeguard with the sleek crimson one-piece I’d spoken to on occasion. But what would she be doing in the men’s locker room?

I read:

This is kind of personal so I hope you read it in private. I swim here 2-3 times a week and would like to get to know you. Maybe we could take in a movie or go out for coffee sometime. I’m not some weirdo or pervert, but a little shy about meeting other guys. I have a girlfriend on a casual basis, but have wanted to try going out with a guy who might feel the same way. You look like a nice guy that I could be friends with as well as get together [with] privately once in a while.

So I had an admirer. (He’d signed his name and left his phone number.) On one hand, I was flattered. A little. On the other hand, every time I was in the locker room, I glanced around suspiciously, wondering whose eyes might be on me.

But I should give my anonymous correspondent credit. He was merely fishing in a pool—pun intended—of the world’s best lovers, men and women. According to the Urban Dictionary, “[Swimmers’] hip flexors and abdominal muscles give them stamina that helps maintain a very enjoyable rhythm in the bedroom. So date a swimmer.”

 

The original Tarzan, Johnny Weissmuller, was a five-time Olympic gold medalist in swimming. Like me, Weissmuller used swimming as a means to overcome an illness. In his case, it wasn’t mental illness but polio, which he contracted when he was nine years old.

Like me, Weissmuller lied in order to swim. Although he was born in Timisoara, Romania, Weissmuller said he was born in Windber, Pennsylvania, so he would be eligible to compete for the United States in the Olympics.

I know: Comparing myself to Weissmuller the swimmer is about as far-fetched as comparing myself to Weissmuller the actor. But my fastest time in the 100-meter freestyle is only six seconds shy of his former world record of 57.4 seconds, set on February 17, 1924. And, enhanced by a little wine, my Tarzan call could definitely rouse a few jungle animals….and annoy everyone else.