03/28/2024
Spread the love
By: Jefferson Weaver
Jefferson-WeaverA buddy was grumbling rather philosophically about problems with his pool the other day.
It’s not one of those fancy, in-ground things that make real estate salespeople and tax assessors rub their hands in glee. Rather, it’s just the simple kind that a family scratches together spare change for over a couple years, looking forward to some cooler days in the Carolina summer.
Despite capricious pumps, filters, lawnmower projectiles, dead grass and a myriad of other nuisances, my friend said he didn’t necessarily regret having the pool. His family enjoys it, and he does too.
“Still, I remember when we were content to have a rope over the millpond,” he said.
“That was what I call swimming.”
I had to agree; we grew up similarly blessed, although in my case, the rope was a sketchy steel cable that flew out over the Cape Fear River, below Smiley’s Falls but above Pig Island. We skinnied out on a branch to dive or recover the cable, whereas my friend had a board that stretched from the tree. Those who weren’t brave enough to tackle either the high-diving branch or the cable were inevitably chicken.
There once seemed to be a magical line of demarcation that bordered school and the swimming season. It was rare, when I was a kid, that we went swimming before the end of the school year. Whether it was due to tradition, a lack of parental supervision, or some secret anti-hooky switch controlled by the school board, we didn’t often pile into a favorite swimming hole until school was either out, or nearly so.
There were a few notable exceptions, of course – like one unusually warm Easter, when Jackie, Greg and myself met our first live beaver. They were considered rare at that time, and Danny Smith, the local game warden, threatened us with the most vile of punishments if we did anything to harm the beaver. When I saw him a few years ago and recounted the anecdote, he admitted the decision to protect the lonely Castor Canadensis might not have been his best enforcement move.
By the way, the water that morning was nowhere near as warm as the spring air. In fact, I’m fairly sure the water was actually warmer on Jan. 1 in the year we observed a New Year’s Day tradition (one which never actually became a tradition) than it was on that Resurrection Morning.
Since then, I’ve piled into the ocean, the sound, at least three rivers, innumerable ponds and creeks, dozens of beaver sloughs, and various canals, all well before the end of the school year.
Philosophers and doctors as far back as the early Greeks have considered swimming to be healthful for the body and soul. A good dunk in a tannin-rich brownwater creek will also ease the sting of fire ants and yellow flies, as least for a little while.
One of my favorite swimming holes has a semi-natural cutout in the bank that makes a perfect place to kick back and take a nap on a 100-degree day, and I can attest that I find cold canal water far more relaxing and enervating than any bathtub-temperature chlorine-rich pool.
I am no sissy, by any means, but by mid-summer, I am strongly suspicious of crowded beaches and swimming areas, where terms like “Piddle Beach” and “Lake
Littlekidwillpee” are more fact than funny. When it comes time for a quick cooling dip, I look for a place where the snakes might outnumber the people, simply because I’d rather share the sand with a venomous viper far more than the average intoxicated tourist. Besides, you can always shoot a snake if it’s too rude.
This is not to say I don’t like the beach, but there are a lot more white-sand shores along brownwater canals and creeks than people realize. Plus, the sight of a bony, bearded, long-haired, pale-skinned man of middle age and backwoods demeanor such as myself would cause a panic worthy of the movie “Jaws” on most public beaches.
Yes, backwoods swimming holes are fraught with danger, occasionally snaky, and often occupied by a plethora of alligators and a paucity of lifeguards – but as a society, we’re far too sissified for our own good. For Pete’s sake – on the late Elliot Henry’s 80 th birthday, he rode a zipline out across the canal and dropped off into more than a dozen feet of water. He even helped build the zipline. With an example like that, I’d be ashamed to pick a pool over one of his beloved canals.
Such hideaways are also a haven in the heat of the season, with plenty of parking and shade, and a reputation that frightens less stalwart souls. It’s not often you’ll find an old rope swinging over a beach, or a “daredevil branch” dangling over a swimming pool.
Around some of my favorite places, you can meet cypress trees older than English language in America, or discuss boundaries with an otter. If one stays still long enough, curious fingerlings will nibble one’s feet. A startled heron, steadfastly wading his way downstream, might express his disdain with a chainsaw-like “Cronk, crawwwwwnnk” before awkwardly lifting off to fly in total defiance of the laws of physics.
Squirrels gone grocery shopping on thirsty pignut hickories and water oaks are not as frightened of predators stretched back in a water hole as they are when said predator is sneaking through the woods. Indeed, I remember one black fox squirrel in particular who sat Buddha-like on one convenient limb and just stared, quizzically, as I paddled and puffed my way around my favorite woodland pool.
Apparently I was as amusing or confusing to him as a display at Sea World.
Now, don’t get me wrong – I am unlikely to turn down many chances to go for a quick swim, whether the water is brown and moving, or crystal-clear with chlorine.
I don’t tolerate hot weather very well, and as such, I seek the cool places when the sun is high and the shade welcome.
My favorites, however, will always be hidden down roads that most folks don’t see, in forests they can’t find, along a brownwater stream where cables hang from trees, and daredevils and chickens go to play.

 

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